


the gentle beat of a toe

by wonderfully_dead



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Bois Inc, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Deity Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, GODDAMIT, Gen, Hurt Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt/Comfort, Immortality, Insane Wilbur Soot, Isolation, Loneliness, Mafia AU, Past Abuse, Phil Watson Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Recruitment, Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sad TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Shocking I know, Swearing, They’re best friends your honor, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit Friendship, TommyInnit Swears (Video Blogging RPF), Violence, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), and it’s because, and so it begins, cannibur, footdy, footwastoeken, footza, god forgive me, he’s close enough let him have this one, i don’t think it’s getting better, i know and i’m sorry, i think this has become more than i expected it to be, it just ended up being wilbur, it’s mostly just philza lmao, mostly - Freeform, of all the people in this fic to be the crazy one, oh my god you guys are not ready, these fucking tags lmao, they go chop chop let’s go, they’re gonna be the death of me, toenailinnit, toenoblade, uh, will add more tags as I think of them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 22,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28521534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonderfully_dead/pseuds/wonderfully_dead
Summary: He’s an immortal with a penchant for blood - stained opportunity.He’s a wandering songster whose unusual tastes strike terror in his wake.He’s a renowned fighter trying to find something outside of the echoes of death.He’s a teenager trying to find something to call home.Their combination will shake the world.~sleepy bois but it’s mafia, gods/goddesses, crack, and the purest form of shameless
Relationships: Clay | Dream & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 121
Kudos: 358





	1. a sole reflection

Philza (or Phil, as the mortals so _lovingly_ dubbed him), is a man of symmetry.

Few things on the ground tempted him - centuries of idle wandering, countless time wasted fruitlessly searching for something to abide his time by as the world and its inhabitants were created and decayed, created and decayed, created and decayed, to the point where the mere thought of it made his temples throb.

For most of his existence, he was comfortable allowing himself to fade into obscurity. Though his wings never failed to garner the attention of any gawking human who saw them, he’d learned to stick to the background for centuries, friends an impermanence that would die as he lived.

He’d made a quiet home deep in the tundra, far away from prying eyes and unwelcome visitors with only a crackling hearth as company. 

Time passed. He didn’t.

It was, in its own way, domestic. He built and farmed, but most of his time was spent staring idly at the door, watching for something he could not define.

And then, one day, gazing idly at the smoothed wood he’d so carefully carved and sanded years ago, it dawned on him.

His life was meaningless.

He had settled down without ever even getting riled up in the first place. All his time had been spent as a nomad, wandering from place to place with no objective, no purpose. Nothing enticed him, nothing gave him warmth.

He had numbed and frozen over without even touching the snow.

But there was one thing that he had long since learned could give warmth to him, something that made him thrum in the closest way he could place to feeling _alive._

And it matched his towering wings, toes outstretched in the breeze.

Feet were a kaleidoscope of different measurements and features, each glowing brightly in the sheen of his eye and begging for his attention. He’d heard of humans having _other_ forms of admiration for the foot, but this familiar warmth quietly unfolding itself was not that of attraction. It was an old friend, familiar yet changing, that remained despite everything else.

Their ends were calloused and hardened, yet they connected with the ground like a lover. Gentle grass caressing toughened skin in its own sweet embrace never failed to make him smile.

The middle skin, on the other side, was soft and smooth to the touch, unburdened by wear, _pure._ It was protected by the two ends, even as they grew. 

And together they held upright a body, moving in their own melodic harmony as they stepped into the unknown.

He hears every step and smiles.

They mean something to him, to his purpose. Besides the massive pair of feet serving as his wings (he wasn’t _that_ oblivious to whatever purpose he’d been given), he just knew that there was something special about them.

He loved them. He adored their twists and curves, and he wanted more. He wanted to know more. He needed to obtain more. 

(Greed was a rare similarity between him and the humans that walked the earth. He couldn’t relate to much else.)

So what better way to utilize his interest than to turn it into a business?

Well… business was more of an exaggerated term. He’d rip the feet off a human, clean them up a bit, then sell them for cheap to anyone interested. It was closer to a traveling salesman, but business sounded cleaner, straighter. He practically was one anyway, with how fast he moved from one place to another. 

He’d thought, briefly, about possible recruitment, but had quickly brushed off the idea. This wasn’t something most mortals could even stomach, let alone be skilled at. They’d slow him down.

He had his wings as company.

He didn’t need anyone.

Though now, walking down the coastal beaches near an old fishing village, it felt more clear now than ever that his reach was hindered. 

To avoid the irritation law enforcement was more than happy to provide to him, Philza had mostly stuck to secluded areas to conduct sales - places less likely to look closer into the supposed morality of his products. While this strategy had most definitely saved him more than a few headaches, he could also begrudgingly see how it strictly limited his potential for growth.

This had become an issue he couldn’t resolve on his own, no matter how quick his flight and sales. There weren’t enough buyers, and not enough knowledge, and he wouldn’t let himself branch out.

He wanted the world to see, to _understand,_ yet he was trapped in a cage of his own making.

Stuck.

The flick of a wave caught his attention as it lapped at his legs like a dog. Philza sighed, letting his footed wings curl downwards as he stared at the horizon, half - hidden by wisps of clouds swirled elegantly into its mix.

He’d arrived in the town a few hours ago on a rare non - business occasion, hoping to have a more diverse place to lay out his thoughts.

(Well, mostly non - business. The few who wandered far on the vast sands of the coast wouldn’t likely be missed much, would they? A bit of scoping never hurt.)

He uncrossed his legs, letting himself stretch as his mind drifted. 

It felt bizarre, really. For centuries he had longed to move, to get away from himself, and now he found himself longing for quiet moments like this again, where he could feel something remotely close to full. It was indecisive. Erratic.

(And, though it’d never part his tongue, achingly human.)

“HELP!”

Philza turned sharply, wings tensed in anticipation, to spot a man stumbling down the beach in a panic. “By the _Ender,_ someone get this lunatic away from me!”

The man’s frantic cries had attracted the attention of a growing crowd of people, which would normally be his cue to leave, but something in was curious. Maybe it was the sand beneath him or the ocean ahead, but he didn’t feel like shying away from prying eyes now.

Standing up, Philza made his way towards the man in as non - threatening a manner as he could muster. “Hey, what seems to be the problem, mate?”

The man turned towards him with a startled jolt, eyes scanning him with an ever - familiar wariness, before he reluctantly held up his leg. “Some maniac kid just tried to eat my foot!” He pointed towards a still sluggishly bleeding bite mark crowning his ankle with a grimace. “Piece of shit snuck up behind me. Said he wanted something that ‘tasted of sand.’ Hurts like a bitch.”

A pair of villagers came up behind him, dragging a struggling prisoner with them. A young man, early twenties, with softly curled brown hair and a guitar strapped on his back. 

_Surely,_ Philza thought, _they must have the wrong man._

As if on cue, the young man raised his head up with a knowing smile. “If you hadn’t been so loud, it’d be hurting a lot less.”

And, well.

He couldn’t let this one go.


	2. toe to toe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cannibur.

Wilbur was an idiot.

That wasn’t anything particularly new.

But as he sat chained in the corner of his dingy, pathetic little cell, guitar stripped away from him as he awaited whatever ridiculous punishment these superstitious louts had planned for him, it felt more glaringly obvious than ever.

  
  


He’d been traveling on his own for a good 4 years, making a meager living off of odd jobs and his music. He’d told his parents, all wide - eyes and sharpened grins, that it was because he wanted to make a career out of his talent, to follow his passion.

(That was true, in its own way. Everything he’d lied about was true if you looked at it right, and he’d spend hours searching the air for notes he knew weren’t there.)

But that wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t what he needed so badly it hurt to think about, made his face flush and stomach turn in unsettling, disgusting glee.

Ever since he could remember, he would have… thoughts. Visions, almost.

(Ideas.  _ Cravings. _ )

He’d look at his father when he was agitated and imagine slowly slitting his throat, the skin opening effortlessly under the pointed tip of the blade like the peeling of a fruit, ripe and fresh.

He’d look at other kids and imagine plunging a branch through their ears, twisting it as if he’d hung it over a spitfire, and pulling it out the other end, bloody and true.

But the one thing that had stuck with him most, the one thing that entangled itself in his brain until it suffocated everything else, was him ripping into human skin.

Eating.

He just… he wanted to know. To try it. To dig his teeth into skin and pull it off with the maniacal nature of a rabid dog. He hated it, he hated it, but he  _ had to know. _

He never told anyone. He never did anything, either, despite how his hands twitched and heart twisted. A part of him had hoped he could just ride the feelings out, pray it was a phase and move on.

(Another wanted to find an opportunity to strike.)

He told himself that he was leaving out of concern for his parents, for his town. That he was doing it to save them, like he was some twisted hero. 

But he couldn’t live like this anymore, teetering on the edge constantly and spending every waking second holding himself back in a stasis he couldn’t break out of. The thoughts were becoming too much, too all enveloping. He had to do  _ something. _

The fishing village off the coast seemed perfect. Quiet, isolated, and with options for disposal. He’d held off for so,  _ so  _ long, but he had it. He’d do it, know, and then everything would be fine. 

He should have known better than to think anything of his making to be foolproof.

He’d spotted an old man, toes plunged in the sand, half asleep with a fishing pole haphazardly thrust upright on the beach. All he had to do was strike quickly.

But as Wilbur stepped closer, the images of blood dripping down his face and the warmth of another body became strangling,  _ suffocating.  _

He gravitated towards the leg without even thinking.

Before he could even fully bite down, the man had jolted upright with a pained wail, grabbing him by the scruff of his collar and shoving him face - first into the sand, pressing down as hard as he could while stumbling to his feet and screaming for help.

Wilbur watched numbly as he went, full of an unmistakable unfiltered energy that made him ache.

He failed at the one thing he desperately needed to succeed at everything else.

It wasn’t long before he felt arms roughly throw him upwards - undoubtedly the response to his failed…  _ failure’s  _ cries for assistance.

Other than a snarky comment and a wry smile towards the old man as he bitched about his leg, he cooperated with the villagers as he was led away - if their elderly are that agile, who’s to say what their younger civilians could do?

He did, however, let his coiling rage unfurl when they confiscated his guitar. They’d clamped his shackles so tightly the wrists were turning purple, but so was the head guard’s face. The twinge of joy the fight gave him left him wishing he’d done more.

That happiness quickly dissolved as night fell, moonlight poking through the bars of the window as he sat hunched over.

He always loved sleeping in the woods, even as a kid. The quiet creaking of the trees and rustle of the wildlife felt so unmistakably  _ alive  _ that he couldn’t get enough of it. It was a rare solace he could take to get away from himself.

Here, the room was too quiet. Dead.

Hesitantly, he awkwardly scooted closer to the window, hoping to hear anything other than the irritating clinks of the shackles on his wrists.

Sitting up as straight as he could, Wilbur pressed his head up against the frigid obsidian and listened. As childish as it sounded, he felt like if he could just hear something, anything, then he could rest.

That someone could stand to be near him.

His eyelids had begun to droop treacherously downwards when he heard it.

He mistook it for his own heartbeat at first - a distant, rhythmic thump, nearly impossible to properly distinguish. As it steadily grew louder, however, he realized that it almost sounded like the flap of a wing, were it not for its much deeper tone and the occasional cracks he heard with each beat. Was this some kind of massive bird?

Eventually, the noise got so loud that it sounded like it was directly outside his cell, which was more than enough reason for him to hastily scramble to his feet, unsteady hands clenched for a fight he couldn’t possibly win.

Even more unsettling was the realization that the noise had  _ stopped,  _ only to be replaced with an all - too - familiar one a few moments later.

Somebody was mining into the obsidian.

He took a step back, hissing as light broke through the cell, and he tensed in anticipation.

Any threatening message he had ready immediately died on his throat when his eyes adjusted.

For, no matter how desperately he wanted to be mistaken in the darkness of the room, there, peeking out from the outside as it loomed over, was the unmistakable shape of a toe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updates will be swift and merciless.


	3. putting your foot down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> progression

Wilbur had always taken a bit of pride in his improvisation skills. He wasn’t completely unshockable, but he’d always been able to think quickly on his feet. Part of being a traveling songster was having quick wit, after all.

There are, however, limits to this functionality.

Giant feet acting as a man’s wings was one of them.

The intruder (or rescuer, he wasn’t entirely sure and didn’t really want to find out) was like nothing he’d ever seen before.

There stood a middle aged man, peering curiously through the entrance he’d made, with an earthy green kimono and stark black jacket bizarrely contrasted with the garishly striped hat he wore.

He was a rather unusual sight on his own - he couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t noticed the man when he was scoping out the village.

But his attention was focused elsewhere. For there, folded neatly behind his back, was a pair of feet. Toed, flexible, and altogether rather normal were they not attached to his body and tied with his brain’s ever helpful connections to the noise he’d heard earlier.

He looked… godly, almost. So bizarrely out of place, so outrageously ridiculous, that it gifted him this strange aura of power. Like he was witnessing something otherworldly.

  
  


“How the hell did you get in here?”

So, naturally, the moment got ruined almost immediately.

One of the guards had evidently heard the commotion and come in to investigate, axe in hand. Given what he’d been arrested for, he doubted they’d be very forgiving.

Wilbur leaned against the wall with a sigh, eyes twitching in agitation when he found the length of his chains didn’t reach up far enough for him to cross his arms.

_ What an annoying way to die. _

“H-hey!” The guard fumbled with his keys, scrambling to both get the door open and keep his weapon at the ready at once. “I’m talking to you, asshole! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Wilbur ignored his display, his gaze still transfixed on the new arrival, still awkwardly standing in the corner as though he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. He looked eerily composed, elbow leaned casually against the wall as he watched the guard struggle. “Need some help with that, mate?”

“Go to hell,” he muttered, and Wilbur couldn’t restrain a smirk at the pettiness. Nice to see the foot angel had a sense of humor.

After an agonizing few minutes, the guard finally got the door open and promptly lunged at the man (Foot Man? Foot Man? Foot Guy.), hoping to take him down as quickly as possible.

He didn’t make it two feet.

The guard abruptly stopped in place, eyes wide. He looked down, horrified, and placed a trembling hand on the dagger neatly inserted in his chest.

He collapsed before he could even scream.

Wilbur watched him bleed out in silence, mind numb and distant and aching with joy, before turning back up to Foot Guy, still leaning against the wall with the kind of casualness that made him feel paranoid.

Wordlessly, Foot Guy walked closer to the corpse, blessedly ignoring the way Wilbur leaned so far into the wall he nearly put his head through it. 

It was… it was fine. He hadn’t done anything yet. The guard was the one who attacked and got killed. He didn’t pose a threat.

Wilbur watched wordlessly as the man bent down, hunched over the body, pulled out the knife, and plunged it into the guard’s foot.

Blood spattered on his shirt. Wilbur didn’t make a sound.

The knife slid downwards, and Wilbur watched it glide smoothly around the ankle, still vigorously bleeding out on the floor.

(He was a bit jealous, really. This was already going better than his sad attempt.)

Foot Guy paused for a moment, rummaging through his pockets, until he found what was looking for.

A small cleaver.

_ Oh no. _

The cleaver thrust down with a sickening crack, and Wilbur didn’t need to look to know what he’d done. 

He was horrified.

He was repulsed.

He was  _ impressed. _

All that mattered was what would happen now.

Foot Guy,  _ finally,  _ looked up at him, looking far too pleased for a man who’d just performed an amputation. Wilbur hadn’t quite regained the ability to formulate words, but he tilted his head towards the set of keys, still lying abandoned on the ground.

He did his best not to flinch when Foot Guy walked over, keys in hand, and began sorting through them, attempting to find the winner.

Or the loser. He wasn’t really able to tell yet.

“Name’s Philza,” Foot Guy muttered, jolting Wilbur back to reality. His brain registered it numbly, over and over, like a record on repeat.

_ Philza. Philza. Philza. _

“More like Footza,” he whispered, and the chain broke free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this would have been out sooner but internet decided to die on me at like 1 in the morning so i just finished it later lmao


	4. best foot forward

The coastline was  _ massive. _

He’d known it was expansive, of course. Wilbur had done his own share of exploration earlier, twitching with impatience as he’d scanned the horizon for any unsuspecting inhabitants. He’d walked for hours in one direction and never reached an end, of course it was going to be huge!

But now, breathing in the cool evening air, moonlight and a stranger his only companions, the sand felt vast beneath his feet. Like it stretched on forever, encapsulated in a moment in time that no one else could reach.

Philza (Phil? Phil.) hadn’t told him where they were headed, only busted his chains and beckoned him forth in a way so vague it’d almost be comical were his jacket not still dripping blood on the ground, staining the fading white of the sand.

They had to have been walking for, what, two hours? Three? It had to be near morning, at least - he could see where he was walking now.

Neither of them had spoken since they left the prison, with Phil being a walking murderous cryptic in everything he did and Wilbur not exactly wanting to risk requesting an elaboration.

He could very well be luring him into a death trap, but that’d be quite the waste of time, wouldn’t it? He certainly couldn’t hold a candle to Phil in terms of combat ability. He could want information, but Wilbur had none to offer.

So he’d put his shreds of faith in the mystery man before him. 

Holding out for an angel.

Suddenly, Phil stopped in place, nearly sending Wilbur crashing into him. A toe twitched, as though sensing for something. 

(He was trying so,  _ so  _ hard to not think of how the nether those wings could possibly function. He desperately wanted to know, and so badly didn’t.)

Seemingly satisfied with whatever he was searching for, he sat down on the ground, Wilbur instinctively following his lead. They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the gentle flow of the waves collapsing onto the shore, as though trying to escape the ocean it was tethered to.

Phil broke the calm first. “Heard about what you did to that guy.”

His fingers twitched in aggravation, but Wilbur managed to keep his face even. “And?”

Phil smiled, nearly sheepish, attention fully directed towards him. “Well… I could use the help of someone with those interests.”

… oh.

_ Oh. _

In hindsight, he should have really fucking guessed as much.

The guard, the bizarre feet-wings, his rescue - it was obvious! He was supposed to be able to tell these kinds of things instead of blindly following out of fear, for fuck’s sake!

(Knives trailed down his legs between blinks. It wasn’t the first time the bloodthirsty chants had turned their sword towards him, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.)

“... huh,” he croaked out at last. Phil didn’t seem to mind the wait, thankfully. “What did you have in mind?”

The smile curled into a sharp grin, which didn’t exactly help his nerves. Phil turned towards the rising sun, lost in his own thoughts.

“I run a little… side business, if you will. Enough for some extra coin to line my pockets. You can probably guess what I’m selling,” he laughed, nudging his shoulder as if this were some hilarious inside joke between the two of them. Wilbur didn’t  _ quite  _ find similar humor in it.

After a moment, his laughs died out and he began to speak again. “It’s… well, feet.” A foot ruffled awkwardly, as though it were making itself known. “It sounds strange on paper, I’m sure, but there’s a surprisingly large market for it. Meat, potions, accessories - it’s a rather flexible component in everyday life.”

Wilbur opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. 

What do you even  _ say  _ to something like that?

“... why feet?” He managed to squeak out.

At this, Phil went silent. They spent a few minutes watching the sun peek playfully over the shifting horizon, as though biding its time until it could jump out. 

(Wilbur wanted to do that - stay hidden away for hours and hours at a time, where no one could ever reach you. It would be... nice. Better.)

When Phil began to speak again, he was quieter, as though not completely sure of what he was saying. “I’ve lived alone for a long time. A very _, very_ long time.” He dusted a sandal off, sand brushing gently away at his touch. “I didn’t think there was anything else I could do.”

“But I’ve been thinking about things. About myself, and the way I live my life. And it hasn’t really been living. I was just there, stagnant, barely leaving my own home. I didn’t do anything with my life. I was going to - I was going to watch the world die while I did  _ nothing. _ ”

“But I know that this means something.” He gestured to his wings, passion bleeding into his words. “And I know that I was meant to do something here in this world. This is it! I’ve found what I was meant for!”

“I need someone to help me. I’m not fast enough to do this on my own, despite my best efforts. You’re what I’ve been searching for.” 

The sun was almost completely in view as Phil stuck a hand out. “I believe that I’ve found what I’m meant for, and I’ve found it for you, too. Will you join me?”

On one hand, Wilbur should, objectively, say no. This wasn’t a negotiable subject, he needed to ditch this guy  _ immediately. _ He was selling people’s feet like some kind of independently run black market, for the love of Ender! He wasn’t like that.

… he  _ wasn’t. _

But.

He’d spent his entire life focused on something he couldn’t obtain. He couldn’t as a child, and he couldn’t now. He’d lived unsatisfied, longing, starving.

This was his opportunity to do something about it, to fill the holes that had plagued him for so  _ long _ that it felt like they were just another unfixable part of him. 

Looking at that hand, those passionate words and ready smile, he should say no. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t.

Wilbur met the hand with his own and shook with a smile. “I’ll join you.”

(The lingering thought of a too - silent village was drowned out with the waves.)

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one down.


	5. ankle biter

Philza was no idiot.

That was a fact as old as time itself.

Yet here, looking at the young man -  _ Wilbur -  _ in front of him, slumped over in sleep by the cracking of a campfire, he couldn’t help but feel oddly… naive. Like after all this time, knowledge he should have long since seized as his own still eluded him always just out of reach.

The main reason he’d refused help in the first place was because he’d just assumed that the mortals wouldn’t be interested. That they’d run, horrified and screaming like they always did whenever he approached.

But Wilbur was different in that he was similar. Though he’d failed what he had originally set out to achieve, he’d become a whirlwind of violence, of  _ passion.  _ He was curious, interested, longing, and so he sought more. 

(The man had run from him, injured and screaming, and it was so achingly like himself.)

He’d never thought himself biased. That wasn’t how he acted, it had never been the way. He merely saw, took, and acted as he felt needed. Nothing more. 

He drew his axe from the ground, drops of dried blood still sticking to the handle, and began intensely scrubbing, fingers gripped tightly as he shifted on the log beneath him.

He wasn’t ever the apathetic myth he once sought to be, was he? The warmth that had been burning steadily in his heart ever since the first slice of a foot, the bullheaded stubbornness to rough it out alone,  a smile turned in his direction -

It was all too much. Everything was just overwhelmingly bright, brighter than it had been in a long time. He was feeling more, stronger, for longer times, and he  _ hated  _ it.

He gripped the axe tip harder, gritting his teeth. Wilbur’s head lolled to the side, the tilt making him seem like a curious onlooker instead of a partner.

The action was unconscious, and it hurt him all the more. 

Ironic, wasn’t it? He’d stubbornly stayed on a single path for an eternity, and now he feared too many changes. You’d think he’d have learned better by now.

The man in front of him was a stranger. The people he belonged to were strangers, too.

(Were these feelings not familiar?)

He’d snatched up an unknown, a mortal, in the spur of the moment. He barely even knew anything about the kid besides his name! 

It was ridiculous, foolish, stupid,  _ he was so fucking stupid- _

A dark blur tipped over in front of him, and he lunged a wing forward, barely catching Wilbur inches before he toppled headfirst into the fire.

His eyes widened, stunned. Numbly, he pushed Wilbur back with the flick of a toe, and he fell back in the safety of the grass. 

He didn’t even move.

Well. That was one thing learned, at least - the guy was a  _ heavy  _ sleeper. Almost impressive if it weren’t so terrifying.

Heart still racing, Phil took a deep breath, staring up at the sky. The moon was almost completely covered by trees, but moonlight poked its way out in the gaps of the branches.

The air was still. 

The woods were still.

He was still.

(He’s not shaking. He’s  _ not. _ )

Maybe he was just tired. They’d been traveling almost nonstop for the past week, with little rest inbetween. It explained Wilbur’s evident exhaustion, and it explained… him.

That had to be it, obviously. The mood swings, the racing thoughts, the irrational connections - all a fictionalized haze of sleep deprivation churning in his brain in a sluggish tornado of static and motion, picking up bursts of fervent hate at the slightest inconvenience.

It was annoying, really. Just like a mortal.

He… he had to do something. With himself. He’d taken a step in the right direction with Wilbur, but now he needed to put it to the test for both of them, to make sure they were ready to work as a team and take things up a notch.

He’d seen a town, much earlier in his travels back when he still wandered aimlessly, with a fighting ring. One where grown men took their young and forced them to fight for a prize that came in the form of keeping their lives.

The waste of bodies and the feet that they came with was solely what struck anger in him that night, hearing the sounds of anguished cries.

Nothing more.

Back then, he’d left, unsure of himself, much less what actions he should take. The fighting ring was practically what ran the town, and he didn’t know how What course of action to take next.

So he’d wandered away, farther and farther, until he found joy and a purpose.

He didn’t know what to do then.

He did now.

In a few days, they’d reach the town, likely every bit as dirty and gruesome as he remembered, and they’d slaughter every last person there.

They’d rip the feet off the old and rich, feet smooth and unworked, and get back into business the right way, starting anew. 

“Business” wouldn’t be so exaggerated a term before long, he thought, suppressing the threatening twitch of a smile. It’d grow stronger, faster, better, with an uncrackable frontline that was known throughout town after town.

It was hitting two birds with one stone, really - it’d test Wilbur’s resolve, and prove that he was a far, far distance from the humans. That they weren’t alike.

They were never alike. The way they looked at him - they couldn’t be. They couldn’t be.

Blood, dark and fresh, dripped from the axe point in his hands, and he blinked in surprise. He knew it wasn’t that new, was it?

A throbbing pain registered numbly in his finger. 

Ah. He’d cut himself.

Sighing, Philza grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and pressed down on the wound, toes uncurling in relief when he felt that it was only shallow.

They’d move in the morning. For now, he’d let himself rest.

It was funny, really, how immortals still bleed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything is a lot, track two


	6. toe the line

Wilbur had been mugged, once.

It had happened at the young age of 9, when his bloody thoughts were brief and fleeting and he still held onto shreds of hope that he might have a place in the village. 

He’d been roaming the woods, restless and bored, kicking a log in front of him and watching it roll as he walked. His parents were always out working late, and it left him alone most days, so he’d spend his hours trying to find ways to pass the time. As their time out grew ever longer, it became more of a fruitless effort. 

A group of boys had snuck up on him from behind, throwing him to the ground with ease and demanding everything he had. There hadn’t been much more on him than pocket change and they took their anger out on his face.

He went home battered, bruised, and terrified, and never ventured into those woods again.

That fear turned to anger, that anger into hate, and that hate into a burning violence that had never left him since.

But now, walking with a dangerous figure who’d he’d struck a deal with on a whim, he couldn’t help but feel his anger towards them all those years ago was a little naive. At least their motivations were at least  _ somewhat  _ clear.

Phil, on the other hand (or, well,  _ foot _ ), was an enigma, someone whose morals were still entirely unclear. He presented himself as an ally, yet was cryptic about everything he did. He had refused to tell Wilbur where they were going, claiming it was “a surprise.” 

Everything about him was a guess, a near - baseless assumption he had to make any time doubts seeped into the tangled weave of his thoughts and he wanted to run until the woods swallowed him whole.

_ Just a bit more,  _ he’d tell himself,  _ and we’ll be there. _

But they’d made it, and now he didn’t know what to think.

“Wilbur? You alright, mate?”

He huffed, irritated, and sped up his pace, doing his best to keep from meeting the malicious glares he could practically feel burning into him from the gathering townspeople. “I’d be far better if you actually told me what we were doing instead of leading me blindly and dodging any question I throw your way,  _ mate.” _

Phil snorted, throwing him a playful glare behind his shoulder. That was another thing that irked him about his off - brand angel - he was always composed, even when he was ripping a man’s foot off. It made his mood nearly impossible to accurately read.

“Relax. There isn’t much left to be done, anyhow.” Wilbur noticed, barely choking down a grimace, that his grip on the axe had tightened with his smile. “I’ll tell you what you need to know once we’re ready to get started.”

“Wow, that was terribly informative. Thank you  _ so  _ much.”

“I know, it’s my speciality.”

God, he was insufferable.

A gravelly bellow rang through the air, startling him with a jolt. He might have imagined it, but he could have sworn Phil’s wings tensed, toes curling in on themselves in a way that seemed shockingly similar to a wince. Wilbur turned to him, eyes narrowed. “What was that?”

He said nothing, looking off into the distance with clouded eyes. It was oddly…  _ unnerving,  _ but he didn’t back off, he  _ couldn’t. _ “Phil. Phil, look at me.”

If he heard him, he didn’t bother to listen, because  _ of course he didn’t.  _ Phil began to walk forward, legs stiffened and axe raised. A hostile crowd was forming quickly in front of them, and Wilbur wanted to scream.  _ “Phil-” _

The axe swung.

A head no longer attached to its body toppled lifelessly to the ground, coming to a stop in the road. Even from an angle, the man’s dying face had been distorted with rage, Wilbur noted.

The crowd noted too, and turned  _ ballistic. _

Wilbur unsheathed his sword in a panic, backing away to give himself a moment to prepare, but most of the attention seemed to be on Phil, who he was seriously considering finishing off himself if the mob didn’t kill them both first, because  _ what the actual fuck was that- _

A sudden flurry of movement caught his eye, and he barely held his sword up in time to parry what would have been a massive uppercut to the face via a (blood-stained?) axe from a seriously pissed off man - burly, bearded, and absolutely gargantuan.

Great. Looks like he’ll be on his deathbed even sooner than expected. He could not imagine a more lucrative business partnership than this.

“... so.” Wilbur backed up slightly, noticing the beast in the shell of a man stepping even closer in response. “What do you guys do here, exactly?”

He sneered in contempt, hands rubbing greedily up and down his axe handle like he already knew that he’d won. “Y’already know if yur here, boy.” He stalked closer, leaving Wilbur no choice but to continue backing up. “Think yew can stop our lil’ o - per - ra - tion here, huh? Well…” He grinned, sharp and vile, and tossed the handle casually to one hand

“Ya got another thing comin’.”

Wilbur flew at him with the sword, slicing his chest open before he could even react. He let out a shriek of indignation, stumbled forward, and collapsed in a billow of dust.

After a minute of awkward silence, Wilbur hesitantly poked him with the tip of his sword. He laid still.

… woah.

Huh.

“Wow, okay,  _ fuck,”  _ he muttered, staring at the sword in his hand with awe. He let out a near hysterical laugh, delighted in the way the tingling in his shaking hands felt. 

For the first time, he felt completely unashamed to say he wanted more.

He turned to Philza, relieved  _ (relieved?) _ to find he stood, albeit significantly more bloodied and bodies cluttering his feet. They met each other’s eyes, and Phil noted blood on his sword with a smile. “Nice work out there.”

Wilbur sputtered in indignation. “Wh -  _ Phil! _ You are  _ not  _ just brushing off that stunt you pulled back there,  _ what the fuck was that?! _ ” The laugh that met his ears only pissed him off more. “No, seriously, are you out of your mind?! I could’ve gotten killed back there, we  _ both  _ could have!”

Phil just smiled, taking out a bag and crouching near a body next to him. “I am actually sorry if I’ve been being a bit cryptic. I haven’t had the best experience with mortals.” He took out a carving knife from his cloak, tossing aside a boot with ease. “I was just trying to see if you were up for the job.”

That… did make some sense. He wasn’t entirely sure what kind of creature or deity or whatever Phil exactly  _ was,  _ but it was obvious people hated him almost immediately. “Yeah, well. Don’t do it again, I guess.” He sighed, looking at the corpses littering the ground, soon to be feetless. “You don’t know what could’ve-”

The ring of metal sang from behind him, and footsteps clambered toward him in a fury. He only had time to turn his head, helpless, as his thoughts raced.

_ ohmygodididn’tcheckthebodyi’mgoingtodiei’mgoingtodiefuckfuckfuckfuck _ **_fuckfuckFUCK-_ **

He braced for impact, but felt nothing but the rush of wind.

The beastly man stayed upright for an instant, axe still raised above his head, and collapsed in a heap, mere inches from where Wilbur stood. He could only gape as he watched the blood pool around the arrow neatly embedded into the back of his skull.

“Huh,” a baritone voice muttered. “Not everyday you see visitors enterin’ their fights for free.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canon will not defy me.


	7. getting your feet wet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two down.

Technoblade was never much for change.

The monotony of his life wasn’t exactly  _ comforting,  _ per say, but it provided rhythm. A steadiness that he’d never been able to manifest anywhere else.

Except, of course, in blood.

The two meshed together in a seamless combination that made up his everyday routine - train, avoid pissing off the managers, fight, win, avoid pissing off the betters, pretend to sleep, repeat.

It hadn’t changed in the eight years since he’d been dragged into this shithole, even if most of its necessity had. 

The main runners behind the fighting ring had eventually all come to the realization that they’d have their limbs torn off if they continued to slap him around, so they mostly left him alone after a few years. They still took some of his prize winnings, but made sure to keep out of his way.

He’d still make sure to slit their throats when he leaves.

For now, at least, he was alright where he was. He’d let the thrill of the fight satiate him with its rush, then move on. He wasn’t content, but it was enough.

Not for chat, though. Their voices constantly buzzed over one another in annoyance,an overlapping spout of nonsensical phrases like “cringe,” “not pog,” or “technobitch” whenever they weren’t screaming for blood. They weren’t satisfied.

(They were  _ never  _ satisfied.)

So, even though he was  _ technically  _ here against his will, it didn’t exactly apply to him much anymore. He stayed for the fighting, let the people have their Blood God in the ring, and lived quietly. He’d leave eventually, just… later.

He had nowhere else to go.

Other than chat’s increasing frustration and the occasional assholery from the fight runners, his life as a fighter was at peace. He certainly didn’t miss the irony in that.

In general, his existence here was… quiet, yet incomplete. Missing the excitement it once held, the flavor that once came off it so pungently. 

He couldn’t help but feel like he was waiting for something.

So  _ naturally  _ the genocide had to happen on his one goddamn day off.

Tourists (and in extension, income) had been down, so there wasn’t even enough money on the table for an audience or tournament. Shitty for some, sure, but it was the first time he’d not had to spend the day fighting in… well, years, probably. 

The voices hated it, but it was surprisingly nice to have a moment away.

He’d been in the woods, watching the water course swiftly down one of the many streams running through the area, watching it twist and curve down its path until it vanished from his sight.

He used to come here a lot, back when he was first brought here, overwhelmed by the pressure and fear and searching for something that would silence the calls for blood clawing through his mind. 

Now, though? He really didn’t need it anymore. 

Techno ran his hand under the water, watching its shape ripple and distort from the other side, like something old and fading he was no longer tethered to. Like any second, he’d be tearing himself away.

The moment was interrupted when chat began yelling fervently. He couldn’t pick up all of what they were saying, but their panicked tones telling him something was happening in the village were enough for him. 

(They always knew too much, the voices. Enough to where he knew they weren’t just a delusion of the mind. Even if they were annoying, loud, and frequent liars, they’d come in handy on more occasions than he’d ever admit.)

He went back reluctantly, expecting a couple drunk bastards to have gotten in a fight and scared some kids or whatever.

Instead, he found half the village dead as bleeding out, some winged (... hybrid?) guy cutting their feet off in the streets, and one of the fight runners about to chop a kid’s head off.

_ “BLOOD,” they hissed, “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD.” _

And, well.

He couldn’t find it in him to disagree.

Once his arrow had sunken halfway through his head, Techno turned and looked at the new arrivals more closely. They were…  _ bizarre,  _ to say the least.

The winged man caught his eye first, obviously. His wings were entirely composed of the massive feet meshing into flesh at the back of the skin, and he was currently slicing off a foot with a carving knife. “Standout” was evident.

The other, however, was more covert, more subtle. A young man, early twenties, with curly brown hair shading eyes gawking at him in shock. He almost seemed like a bystander, were it not the blood dripping from the sword in his hands.

They were both staring at him, mouths agape. While they both evidently had skills in combat, they also weren’t the ones with the crossbow. He could take them both out right now, if he wanted.

Which… he should, really. He  _ should.  _ They just killed dozens of people, people who he  _ knew.  _ They were bizarre and terrifying and Techno hadn’t even heard them speak yet. 

He could take them out in two seconds and move on with his life. 

But.

The voices… didn’t immediately call for blood. Which was weird, because that was a constant with every single person they had ever interacted with.

Maybe it was because of their own frustrations, or their unfulfilled bloodlust, or the lengths they would go to piss him off, but they all seemed to be whispering “go talk to them!!!” or “see what they’re doing first.” 

It was concerning, to say the least.

(So was the shaking of his hands and buzz in his skin that was more powerful than it’d been in years. He wanted more, more,  _ more- _ )

He stepped forward.

“Need a hand?”

A moment of silence. Then, a snort.

“We’ve got a bit too many of those as is, but your help’s something we could use. Care to join?”

The voices listened, near silent in anticipation for an offer he still didn’t know the significance of.

“I’m in.”

And they rejoiced.

  
  



	8. foot the bill

Working with Philza and Techno was, Wilbur quickly discovered, the epitome of finding yourself stuck between a rock and a hard place.

Phil was the rock - a familiarity, steady and even, yet jagged and sharp. They looked innocent to some, hazardous to others, but they were neither - merely a force of destruction and projectile at the ready, apathetic to all and merciful to none.

Techno, for the few days they’d coexisted near one another, was evidently the hard place - vague, curious, unknown. An obvious danger to anyone within its vicinity - tall, strange, and menacing.

Together, the two made for a rather dangerous partnership, he’d decided, and opted to keep his distance

(It was never an easy thing to admit when his heart disagreed.)

So when he’d been told he’d be doing his first “real” assignment solo, he couldn’t help but be rather excited. It’d be some welcome time to himself (or, more specifically, time not spent around a god and a murderer) and allow him time to better form his role in this… business… thing. 

He’d woken up that morning with the unusual thrum of excitement humming through his veins despite the bitter cold of the morning and the dew of the grass soaking through his skin.

(Phil had insisted he not sleep by the fire anymore. despite it providing some much needed warmth during the evenings. Wilbur was pretty sure he just wanted the heat to himself. Probably tickles his wing - toes or something.) 

Phil and Techno weren’t there, which wasn’t surprising. They both loved going out on their own at night, though the specifics of what they actually  _ did  _ were a mystery that he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. 

In their place was a bulging bag neatly settled by the dying fire with a note on top. He picked it up hesitantly.

_ Wilbur, _

_ Come back once the feet are all sold. They don’t have to go for more than a few coins per foot, but don’t give them away, either.  _

_ Have fun!! :D _

_ -Phil _

He stood staring at the note, numbly. 

It was funny, really. After weeks of following around a guy who’d struck a business partnership with him, he’d never once bothered to think about why people buy the feet in the first place.

And with Phil nowhere to be found, he wasn’t going to be able to ask.

Eventually, he aimed for a remote spot south of the remains of the fighting village, where he’d seen small, self - sufficient communities rather than actual towns. The people over there were probably crazy enough, right? They were less likely to run shrieking in terror when he opened his bag, anyway.

He arrived quietly, hoping that a stealthy entrance would make up for the conspicuously large bag slung over his shoulder on the off chance these homes had any sort of functioning law enforcement. The  _ last  _ thing he needed was any sort of unwanted attention.

(Come to think of it, wouldn’t the feet have started to smell by now? By all accounts, they seemed as good as fresh. What did Phil even  _ do  _ to them, anyway?)

Other than a few odd looks, though, nobody seemed to mind his presence much. He was more than grateful for that.

He stood for a few minutes, bag in hand, before reluctantly removing it from his shoulder. “Um… feet!” Wilbur shifted, looking around awkwardly and desperately trying to pretend that this wasn’t the most mortifying thing he’d ever done. “Feet for sale!”

_ That  _ got some attention from the locals. 

A young woman walked up to him, head tilted in curiosity. “Did you say that you’re selling feet?”

This was it. The moment of truth.

He opened the bag with a smile. “Yes, I am.”

She peered into the bag for a long, long time, face contorted into an expression of silent shock. He tensed, prepped to run in case she screamed for help or tried to attack.

“How much meat is usable in these?”

Wilbur’s head shot up, only to see her holding a severed foot, turning it over carefully like it was something priceless.

Wow.

Huh. 

Okay.

That made sense,  _ obviously.  _ This was a relatively poor area for hunting, and the people could always use more meat, right? Even if it came from dubious origins?

Yeah. That was logical. Just trying to survive.

His smile didn’t dip. “ _ Plenty _ of meat. They’re 3 coins a piece.”

Her eyes lit up with excitement. “ _ 3?!  _ That’s amazing!” She dug through a satchel on her side, digging through with a passion. “I’ll take 5!”

Wilbur slipped the coins into his own satchel with ease, holding them tightly like they might be ripped back from him in a cruel joke. He opened the bag wider to her. “Take your pick, ma’am.”

She grinned, taking the top few after a moment of decision and leaving with full arms. 

It didn’t take long for others to notice.

His line quickly filled up, and the bag once filled to the brim quickly began to drain. Everybody wanted to try this cheap new source of meat, despite its outside origins.

He certainly wouldn’t question it. This made his job much, _ much _ easier.

Overall, he regarded the trip as a good learning experience on how to sell a dubious product - target people who need them more so they’re less likely to question it. 

Easy.

He couldn’t help but feel lighter on his way back, and it wasn’t just the empty bag swaying in the breeze over his shoulder. He felt like he’d actually accomplished something here, helped some people out. It felt nice to actually be looked up on, for a change.

(He knew, of course, that facade had to come crashing down. It was always just a matter of when.)

When he arrived back at the campsite, Phil and Techno were there, hunched over the fire as the sun dipped below the horizon. Phil raised an eyebrow at his return. “Forget something?”

Wilbur grinned, tossing the bag on the ground. “Only to thank you guys for so graciously gifting me such a  _ pleasant  _ job experience.” Even through the flames, he could see right through the look of Phil’s face. “Your turn, Techno. Have fun.”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you know the only thing about this fic i’m not making up as i go is the name of the last chapter. that’s literally all i have planned.


	9. a foot in the fire

The last time Techno had sat near a campfire, it had been when he was 13.

It had been a few days after his abduction, or, as he liked to call it, a “surprise employment.” 

He’d been taken along with a few of the other more physically skilled kids from neighboring villages - no one he recognized, but their presence was appreciated nonetheless. Misery loves company, he supposed.

They’d been sat down, tired and scared out of their minds, about a few miles south of the fighting village to discuss their new line of work, but he knew what it was  _ really  _ for. The men loved getting a chance to spend time on themselves - to talk incessantly about how amazingly strong and powerful and  _ better  _ they were. How considerate.

(They were undoubtedly the Narcissus of this story, he thought. Staring at their own reflection, the ripple of a static present right in front of them instead of the ones desperately trying to catch their attention. 

He could ignore that they both lived and died exactly where they were.)

What had most caught his attention, however, was the fire. He’d never seen a bonfire dance quite so high before, with embers that seemed to jump at the skyline with a fervency that exhausted him just looking at it.

He could raise it higher, he thought. Take a couple of the guys out and run, come back a bit later, turn it into a smoke signal. Someone would come before long, he’d be… he’d be saved.

The voices certainly agreed. They’d been growing incessantly louder ever since he’d arrived here, spiking to a volume that made his head pulse with pain and agitation. They wanted freedom, they wanted to leave.

And, of course, they wanted  _ blood. _

His hands were tied, but he knew he could still fight - probably still win easily, to be honest. All he had to do was move.

But he lingered. He waited, even as the men talked and their attention wavered from him, their voices becoming a distant warbling. 

He’d been taken, sure. From a village - technically, a home.

But no one there liked him. Nether, they could barely stomach  _ speaking  _ to him, their lips curling in disgust whenever he walked by. They’d run when he came near too quickly or slam their door in his face or scream at him to  _ just leave them alone, asshole, no one fucking wants you here anyway you goddamn hybrid- _

And he knew why. 

Everyone did.

His hands, tied and tired, kept still behind his back as the embers danced away from him like everyone else.

He had nowhere else to go.

This time around, however, things were significantly different.

He was grown, first off. An adult, heaving and muscular and still immature enough to pull dumb stunts like this on occasion.

He actually knew who he was sitting next to now. He wasn’t actually sure if that was a benefit or not, considering how goddamn  _ annoying  _ the two of them were, bickering with each other constantly and desperately attempting to drag him down with them if things didn’t work out as planned. 

Strangers, as uncomfortable as they made him, at least had some air of mystery clouding over their personalities, but the air was far too clear tonight.

The main thing, though. The one difference that captured his attention was the fire.

Before, it towered above him. The shifting tips of the flames eluded him, escaping into the air and leaving him behind over and over again, like some tired, monotonous dance that he was stuck in. It roared with energy and power and  _ life  _ as everyone around it flickered and died.

This time, however.

The flames were calm, manageable. The two idiots near him, cumbersome as they were, were good survivalists, relatively responsible when it came to what they could handle in a campfire as the night grew dimmed and the air bit with cold.

They rippled gently beside him, curving and weaving with a sort of refined elegance that the bonfire all those years ago could never have even dreamed of. They were smaller, dimmer, yet still held an undeniable grace.

The embers still jumped and flew, still aimlessly clawing for the skies above it, but they came back down, returning to its center of gravity with a skillful ease. They remained for him to see, staying near him.

“Techno, Techno,” Wilbur smirked, hands gripping the side of the log to keep himself steady. “How old do you think Phil is?”

God fucking dammit.

He sighed, looking at his hands like they might somehow get him out of this exhaustion - fueled conversation. “Nope. I’m not tellin’ you anything about that.” 

Wilbur grinned hazily, leaning forward with the eagerness of a child. He’d barely slept since he’d arrived back from his little foot escapade that Phil sent him on a few days back. He claimed he was fine, but the ever - prominent bags weighing down his eyelids claimed otherwise. Not that he’d say anything.

“Just ask Phil in the mornin’ if you’re so damn worked up over it,” he grumbled, sending Wilbur a tired glare as he pointed to the winged man asleep near the flames.

“Wh- I can’t just go up and  _ ask  _ him!” He sputtered, waving his hands around as though it were something painfully obvious. “He’d never tell me.” His face twisted, slightly, as he stood. “He never tells me anything.”

He’d made note of this earlier. Wilbur seemed to be kept out of the loop for a good deal of assignments - Phil said they leave early, without warning, whenever they went out in the morning. He’d assumed it had been to keep quiet in case someone was following them or maybe just to piss Wilbur off, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“I’ll ask him tomorrow, if it’s so bothersome to you,” he huffed, ignoring the way his eyes widened with surprise. “You’ll owe me.”

“Of course I will. You’ll probably make me toss Phil’s foot supply over a bridge until he has homicidal intent towards us both.” Wilbur leaned back into the grass, eyes shutting with a barely muttered “thanks.” 

Techno waited a few minutes in silence, straining his ears until the only things he heard were soft breathing and the crackle of the flames.

The embers jumped and spun and ran with passion he couldn’t understand, but they never left him.

And that, in the end, is what kept him warm. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to the curseworm discord for helping me suffer along with them while i wrote this


	10. kicking the bucket

Techno hadn’t spoken since they’d left the campsite.

On paper, this really shouldn’t be an issue. Techno had already shown himself to be a much more reserved person - more than Wilbur was, anyway. He never spoke much on their nightly outings, preferring to keep his attention focused on the environment around him, and Phil could respect that. It wasn’t as though he were very talkative either.

But something about the silence that hung over them seemed  _ different  _ this time. Maybe he was walking too stiffly, or making sure to keep his movement quiet, or just the noticeable lapse in a conversation. 

It was, for lack of a better word, a bit concerning.

(Even now, the word still tasted foreign and bitter.)

He tried to ignore it at first, but he couldn’t help the twitch of annoyance in his toe wings, jerking in on themselves in frustration that he still couldn’t hide.

“You alright, Phil?”

He blinked in surprise. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.” After a moment, he turned slightly, sneaking a glance behind him between the crevices of his toes. 

Techno’s eyes were distant, lost in thought. That was a similarity between the two of them - they both were clouded in a constant air of uncertainty, like everything about them was a permanent unknown.

(They had a lot in common, honestly - far more than expected. It was rather disconcerting.)

Their walk continued, and the uneasy silence remained. 

_ This isn’t even an issue,  _ his brain hissed, agitated.  _ You’re walking around, wasting time, and you’re getting this bothered over nothing. This is pathetic, just like all those years you spent growing soft in that shithole you built in the woods. You’re practically fucking  _ **_human-_ **

No. No, he wouldn’t - he wouldn’t go there with himself. That was stupid. He was stupid, tired, and foolish. That was it.

It was a bit nonsensical, really. He used to be so sure of himself when he was on the wrong path, and now indecisiveness riddles him on the right one.

Thoughts could be like that, sometimes. They flitted and twisted and spun around so fast that he couldn’t ever match their pace. They spun circles around him, knowing everything and nothing all at once and crowding so densely in his mind that it ripped at the ends. 

They spoke so quickly that he couldn’t catch half their words, and the other half he desperately wished he didn’t. They spent their time screaming into nothing, tearing and clawing their way out.

They hadn’t, of course.

... yet.

“... Phil?”

He paused, surprised, and stopped in place. “Something you want to ask?” 

“Uh, yeah.” He noted the sound of boots shifting uncomfortably in the grass behind him, grating on his ears. “How long have ya had the wings?”

Phil huffed in amusement, turning fully to face Techno. “Ever since I got here.”

He seemed to mull over this, head tilted in thought. A rather cute tic, really. “Which was…?”

Ah.

So  _ that  _ was his game.

Clever.

He couldn’t restrain a snort at the thinly veiled bluntness. “I’ve got to keep  _ some  _ secrets, you know. Can’t have you betraying me and using the knowledge of my age as a deadly weapon.” 

“You discovered my game. I’m going to turn on ya and steal your feet profits by age shamin’ you. How could you have  _ ever  _ guessed.”

He smirked knowingly. “It’s my specialty, mate.” Phil sat down in the grass, motioning for Techno to follow with a beckoning toe. He did so, albeit hesitantly.

“Why’d you want to know, anyway?” He flicked away a stray leaf from his jacket, watching the hybrid’s reaction. He didn’t seem fazed.

“Wilbur wanted to know. Said I should ask ya.” There was silence for a moment, the cool evening air soaking in their words in its gentle grip. 

“Ya know… he said you never tell him anything,” he muttered. “Can’t much blame ya for most of it, considering how much of a dumbass he can be on nearly every occasion, but why not tell him about assignments? Isn’t that a bit redundant?”

Now it was Phil’s turn to stay silent. He dipped his hat ever so slightly, grateful that the night was growing dark enough to shade his face from view. He was a good liar, but only by tongue.

“Wilbur’s… young,” he began carefully, words in a neatly arranged line he hoped wouldn’t be torn apart later. “And I don’t mean just age - wise, either. He’s inexperienced - in combat, in killing, in so,  _ so  _ much. I know that he’s frustrated that I’m not telling him as much as you, and I get that, I do.” The branches creaked distantly in the wind as he shifted. They never gave him answers.

“But you and I, Techno? We’ve got that experience, that life. I’m trying to throw him into it blind to test his abilities, to prepare him for the worst to come so he isn’t shaken by it later.”

Techno’s jaw seemed to be set a bit tighter than usual, but the rest of his face was blank, expression carefully composed to neutral. “Huh. Interesting.” He looked down, and said nothing else. Whatever his thoughts were, he was keeping them to himself.

(He couldn’t help but notice that it felt achingly familiar.)

Taking this as a cue to stand, Phil pulled himself up, stretching his wings with a yawn. “Guess we better get going then, eh? Can’t just sit in the dark forever.”

It had nearly grown too dark to see, but Phil could just make out a figure heaving themselves up with surprising ease through the slips of moonlight peeking down through the gaps in the branches. “Guess so.”

“Oh, and Techno?” Phil strode forward, hat tipped down despite the dark already clouding his vision, towering trees eclipsing most of the skyline. “Tell Wilbur that I’ve been around for a long time.”

The outline of the trees faded in his vision as he moved forward. Everything faded, rotting into nothing in the grace of the black until only he remained.

_ Wouldn’t be the first time. _

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the third will come.
> 
> the rest is a surprise.


	11. tread lightly

Wilbur had come to the realization that he asked far too many questions.

Asking Techno something was to expect a response that was stilted and brief, much akin to the man himself. He understood that - that was just how he was.

But Phil - Phil was a  _ gamble.  _ Most of the time, asking Phil anything would result in a sidestepping joke, or something vague and evasive, like he was playing a constant game of dodge with anything Wilbur ever had to say. It infuriated him to no end.

_ But. _

Phil, as much as it pained him to even think it, was an interesting man. Ender, he probably wasn’t even a man going off a few of the stray remarks he’d caught when he actually talked to him.

Phil was an endless unraveling layer of secrets, and it remained something of a morbid fascination to him.

So, yes. Wilbur was curious at heart. 

But curiosity killed the cat, and when asking Phil why he had string in his bag led to him stringing cauterized toes into necklaces at roughly four o’clock in the morning, he sure felt pretty fucking dead.

The sole upside to this shitshow was that Techno’d been put on jewelry duty with him after he’d doubled over laughing at the sight. Wilbur couldn’t help but grin at the sight.

The joy quickly faded when Phil left, heading off for god knows where and leaving the two of them alone.

Together. 

Oh, he’d also come to realize that Phil could fluctuate between a god whose purpose is beyond mortal understanding and an awkward uncle who got dumped with his sister’s kids for a week instantaneously. It’d almost be impressive if it weren’t so goddamn  _ annoying. _

Poking a hole into the tip of a toe, Wilbur glanced up at Techno. He already had a small pile of necklaces next to him, poking holes and stringing with the ease of a practiced hand. It was a skill that surprised Wilbur, really. He wouldn’t have ever thought Techno could thread a needle, much less a  _ toe. _

Oddly enough, it made the silence between them feel less… tense. Like they were both just on the edge of waiting for something to happen, sitting on the tip of a bottle that was about to explode. 

Not that he’d  _ ever  _ admit it out loud (or in his head, for that matter - he still doesn’t know the extent of Phil’s abilities, after all), but Techno’s quiet company was nice. To take a quiet moment with somebody added a bit of vigor to his stringing.

The night whittled into day and Wilbur could see the sun poking out through the trees. They’d nearly gone through their entire toe stock (god, that still felt weird to say) in a few hours, which, frankly, made Wilbur a bit nervous. Phil wouldn’t be back for god knows how long and he wasn’t exactly looking forward for the two of them to actually  _ interact  _ with each other.

Maybe he’d… maybe he’d leave? Yeah, that could work? Just say Phil asked him to sell some feet afterwards, go out, kill time for a few days, and he’d be good to go!

Wilbur finished his necklaces a few minutes after Techno, carefully taking the pile and storing it in one of Phil’s massive “work” bags haphazardly strewn around the campsite. After a moment, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Ah. Techno, I-“

“Hello?”

Oh.

Huh.

Wilbur turned to the point of the voice, and quickly noted two things.

One, that most definitely wasn’t Phil. This was a stranger, dressed in all black with the face of a fox despite his pale skin. He was leaning against a tree, watching them curiously.

Two, he had attached hollowed out feet where his ears should be.

It was, for lack of a better word, absolutely horrifying, and a quick glance at Techno grabbing his sword showed he felt much the same.

The…  _ fox  _ quickly backed up, hands placated in surrender. “Wait, I-I don’t mean any harm!” Quickly, he pulled several parcels of gold from his jacket. “I’m a paying customer, I swear!”

Techno seemed to untense a bit at this, but still kept his sword up. “How’d ya find this place.”

“Fox hybrid,” he smiled sheepishly. “I heard about you guys and had to come for myself.”

There was a pause, for a moment. Wilbur and Techno glanced at each other awkwardly.

On the one hand, this guy was evidently absolutely fucking  _ crazy  _ and they should make him leave as quickly as possible.

On the other… this guy had, like, ten bags of gold and they had  _ way  _ too many feet strewn about for their liking. It couldn’t hurt to get rid of some.

Wilbur pointed towards a nearby bag, hands tensed to cover the shaking in his fingers. “You can take three bags for all of it. Take your pick.”

He seemed happy enough with that, quickly rummaging through the severed feet with unrestrained delight, his own feet limply hanging downwards as he bent over to search.

“There’s still blood dripping from ‘em,” Techno whispered, sword still pointed in the air.

Wilbur desperately missed the silence.

Eventually, the fox returned with three of the largest bags of feet, gold in hand. He placed the baggies on the ground and let Techno comb through them before he nodded as verification.

“Thanks!” He grinned, teeth bared sharply in a way that made his blood curdle.

His smile was, altogether, a bit too red.

“Name’s Fundy, by the way. Guess you can call me Footdy, eh?” He barked out a laugh, swinging the bags over his shoulder with ease as he turned to go.

“Oh, and guys?”

A bird, small and insignificant flew over from the distance, searching for a mate as it drew near a fire.

“We will meet again.”

And as the wind rustled gently between brightening skies, the bird, small yet vigilant, flew upwards from a campfire, which was only in the company of two.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more approach.


	12. kickback

Phil’s axe was missing.

At first, Techno had assumed that he’d simply misplaced it. Phil wasn’t exactly the most organized person - he tended to get so focused on something (mostly his work) that he couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It wasn’t too unusual an occurrence for him to lose something, even if it was his primary weapon.

The distant sound of movement outside the campsite wasn’t too concerning, either. They were in the middle of the woods, after all - wildlife was common in the area, and the noises never seemed to come nearby. He kept an eye out during the night (he didn’t think he could handle another customer situation), but left it alone.

It wasn’t until food started disappearing that he realized there was an infestation problem.

Techno, while usually out during the night with Phil, had begun declining trips out to keep watch during the evenings. Wilbur teased him incessantly about it (“Blood God getting afraid of the dark, eh?”), but he continued. He had better things to do than to listen to Wilbur’s ramblings all day, anyway.

Whoever the culprit was, they were rather stupid. Or, at the very least, completely lacking in any form of stealth. 

Upon closer inspection, Techno easily made out shoe prints leading into the camp that were smaller than his, Phil’s, or Wilbur’s. The tracks were faded, haphazardly scattered around the fire pit as though the intruder ran in, frantically grabbed the first thing they saw, and left.

It pissed him off that he hadn’t noticed it earlier, really. Even though he was usually out for most of the night, this complete lack of subtlety should have been noticed immediately. 

(Nobody seemed to be around the camp much. He hunted frequently, Phil’s whereabouts were always in question, and even Wilbur had been going off on his own more often. It really was starting to feel like a business with all the distance between them.)

Given that they hadn’t been caught yet, however, most likely meant that they only dared to enter the camp whenever no one was there. He’d been waiting at night for over a week and they’d never shown, and he doubted that they’d just stop their little escapade now.

The night hummed quietly, the lack of fire making it seem all the more eerie. Techno shifted anxiously on a branch, listening carefully. He didn’t want to miss the thief, he  _ wouldn’t. _

He’d been perched on a tree for a few hours now, impatiently awaiting the arrival of a thief that still hadn’t been seen. He couldn’t see much without the light of the fire, but his senses were keen enough to where he’d be able to take down anyone that approached.

He did kind of wonder why they were being taken from, honestly. The area they were in was fairly remote, and it wasn’t as though they kept much in the way of valuable on the campsite, anyhow. Unless you counted the hundreds of severed feet listlessly lying around waiting to be sold, but he couldn’t imagine any potential thieves wanting  _ those. _

(Though, admittedly, he wouldn’t mind the wannabe escapist making off with a bag, only to be scarred for the rest of their life when they opened it. Sometimes crime  _ does  _ pay.)

The branch creaked as he shifted his position, dipping ever so slightly into the void below. He never really minded the dark or heights - it was only the side effects that accompanied them that were an issue.

He could move higher up, but that would cost him extra time going downwards and he wasn’t interested in outpacing some screeching rat in the middle of the night. 

He could do it, of course - that just wasn’t how he operated. A Blood God’s gotta work efficiently, after all.

_ lmao gonna dropkick an orphan tonight _

_ technostealth _

_ E _

_ 3AM STAKEOUT CHALLENGE?! (NOT CLICKBAIT) (GONE WRONG) (POLICE CALLED) _

Techno sighed, stretching out his legs in the breeze with a grimace. His chat, omniscient or no, seemed to just be a crowd of loud, obnoxiously bloodthirsty heathens most of the time. No matter the occasion, they never failed to be irritating, even when they were actually trying to help. Not like they ever agreed on any advice they gave him, of course.

(That wasn’t entirely true. They all wanted one thing, longing for it in a pulsating thrum that never left his mind, driving his body forward and his axe swinging.

Blood.)

He might’ve thought that he was hallucinating them were it not for the things they knew. They informed him of things - information was spotty, vague, and contradictory, but they still knew far too much to brush off. They knew Wilbur was a few miles south selling toe jewelry, and that Phil was at a… mountain? That seemed a bit odd, but the consensus for it seemed firm enough to not question it.

_ BELOW YOU _

_ oh god i heard a twig snap _

_ nuke the forest pog? _

Techno stilled and, sure enough, he could make out the quick rustle of leaves underneath feet as someone crept close to the campsite. Axe in hand, he leaned forward, tensed and ready.

He couldn’t completely make out the figure of the intruder, but they were walking around the pit, carefully inspecting for anything of potential value. It pissed him off that this rat could maneuver around the fire pit with such ease, waltzing around when they thought no one was there to catch them. 

  
  


Suddenly, however, they stopped. With a newfound purpose, the thief began heading straight for a tree a few paces to his left, arms outstretched. 

Techno’s brow furrowed, baffled. Why the Nether was he going over there? None of their stuff was stored there, was it? Wh-

The crinkle of a bag’s opening sounded through the air.

Oh.

Oh, he  _ had  _ to see this.

With a grin, Techno leaned forward, moonlight illuminating his figure as he watched. The guy stared for a moment, took a deep breath, and ripped open the bag.

And then, he stared.

He sat, crouched down, hovering over a bag. He was just… watching. Like he’d completely checked out from his own reality as he gazed ahead numbly.

And as he slowly,  _ slowly  _ turned around, face clouded in an expression Techno desperately wished he could see.

“What the  _ fuck  _ is this shit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more


	13. a step too far

Tommy thought of himself as a pretty fucking good thief.

Sure, he’d gotten caught a few times, and living in the middle of the woods didn’t exactly leave much room for stealing nowadays, but he did well at it, really! All he needed was the opportunity.

And when a stockpiled camp abandoned for most of the day showed up out of nowhere, well, how could the Big Man refuse?

He stuck to only stealing at night, taking whatever was nearest the firepit that wouldn’t be missed and booking it. He’d only seen the travelers a few times, but they looked way older than him. 

Not that he was  _ scared,  _ of course! He wasn’t scared of those fucking dumbasses - like he’d be afraid of some wannabe bard and his oversized pig, that’d be ridiculous!

It was just… he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a stable source of food, is all. It was nice to not fall asleep aching and sick for a change.

Tubbo tried giving him food, but he wouldn’t accept it. It was fucking stupid, anyway - he didn’t need any shitty pity gifts. He wasn’t some needy kid or anything, he was  _ fine. _

(Tubbo needed it more. He needed to eat, he needed to live. Tommy didn’t think he’d be able to handle what would happen if he didn’t.)

Things went smoothly for a few weeks, but it didn’t last. That dumb fucking pig wouldn’t even leave the campsite now! He just sat there, twiddling his thumbs, doing jack shit! It was ridiculous!

He decided that he’d lay off on raiding the camp for a bit. Taking the enchanted axe was probably a bit much on his part, he got that. In hindsight, he wasn’t exactly particularly subtle in his methods. 

He figured it’d be fine. He could live without snatching up those dickheads’ shit for a few days if it’d get them off his back. The pig guy would stick around for a few days, think the coast was clear, and then leave. Everything would go back to normal.

But he didn’t leave.

Night after night, he sat by the fire, vigilant and watching. Every night that he saw the fire burning, he left angrier than before.

“The fuck’s this guy’s problem?” He’d grumble as he stomped back to his makeshift (superior!) house, even though he knew exactly what his problem was. “Just fucking sleep already, you bitch! It’s not that hard!”

He was on the verge of just fighting the guy himself when finally,  _ finally,  _ a night came where the fire was out and the air was still. The hybrid guy had left.

Tommy crept up to the camp quietly resisting a grimace with every crunch of the leaves. Just because the camp was empty right now didn’t mean that there weren’t people nearby.

He nearly tripped over a rock (but  _ didn’t,  _ of course, he’s not an idiot!) but managed to catch himself and stumbled over to the firepit, barely illuminated by the slivers of moonlight poking out within the gaps of the trees.

He couldn’t contain his grin when he spotted fresh venison neatly sat on a piece of fur beside a sitting log, even if it did mean he’d have to make his stay short. If they had fresh meat like this just lying around, they (most likely the pig guy, he’s fucking massive, what the fuck) probably would be returning soon.

Tommy wrapped it up as best that he could and hastily shoved it in his satchel, hands already shaking in anticipation. God, that’s already like a few days worth of food at least, it was going to be  _ amazing- _

The sudden freak of the branches above brought him back to his senses. He could think of his own spectacular cooking later. He had to get out of here first.

He was about to turn to leave when he spotted something… odd. A peculiar sheen reflecting off the moonlight near one of the trees.

Like… like a bag.

Hesitantly, he made his way closer, glancing around cautiously. Why the fuck did they just have their shit lying everywhere? Wasn’t that a bit stupid?

(... what were they camping here for if they didn’t need a camp in the first place ?)

Now that he could see it up close, he could tell that it was, in fact, a bag. A rather large one, bulging and tilted sideways like its contents might spill out at any moment. The air of mystery excited him, even if the lingering fear grew stronger.

He glanced around, yet saw nothing.

… it couldn’t hurt, right? Even if it was just their garbage or some shit. Just a check.

He grabbed one side of the bag, held his breath, and ripped it open.

Now, frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting. Despite its appearance, it definitely didn’t smell like trash. More like burnt meat and rubbing alcohol, if anything.

He’d expected maybe discarded meat scraps, or one of the traveler’s secret booze addiction. Something interesting and (hopefully) salvageable.

He most definitely did  _ not  _ expect a pile of severed feet.

Tommy opened his mouth, probably to scream, and abruptly slammed it shut. He crouched down, blinking hesitantly to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Though, frankly, that was likely the better option here, because what the  _ fuck. _

Was that why these people were just camped out in the middle of nowhere, barely entering their own camp? To hide their fucking  _ bodies? _ Were they running some kind of murder ring?

This was… he didn’t even know what to say to that, except that he needed to leave  _ right now. _

Tommy slid the bag shut and, as if on cue, leaves began to crunch under the weight of someone’s shoe and his heart dropped.

He tore through the forest, but gasped as he was yanked back by the collar with ease. His punch was caught by the hand, wrist twisted so tightly he couldn’t even move it.

_ Please be guitar bitch, please be guitar bitch, please be guitar bitch- _

He looked up to tusks hanging over a sharp - toothed grin.

Oh.

He was going to die.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your anger brings me joy


	14. find your feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gift fic??? what the fuck is going on????
> 
> “come into my garden (of eden)” is amazing and godly and the second footza work in ao3. please love it. i’m not alone anymore.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871379

Techno’s little thief, as it turns out, was terribly loud _. _

He couldn’t say that he was too surprised the intruder was just some scrawny kid - it was a bit of a relief, honestly. After the last unwelcome visitor who’d walked into the camp, he really wasn’t looking forward to any approaching customers, business or no.

What he didn’t expect was for the kid to try and throw a punch, take one good look at his instinctively twisted wrist, look up, and growl, “What the fuck are you looking at,  _ Potbelly.” _

The kid looked scared shitless, but was still scowling like it was an even fight. 

Loud, fiery, and willing to talk shit in the face of the Blood God himself? 

For fuck’s sake. He’d only first laid eyes on this kid a few minutes ago and he was already going to be impossible to get rid of. 

Techno dragged him back towards the firepit, ignoring his indignant screeching and heels attempting to push on his legs with a sigh. Combative or no, this kid was not in good enough shape to even have hope of clawing out of his reach.

He let go of one hand to light the fire, the other gripping the kid’s wrists together tightly. Fumbling with the flint and steel, he kind of wished he had another just to keep the kid’s mouth shut. God, he was fucking  _ grating. _

_ why is the child here???? _

_ throw him in the fire lmao that’ll shut em up _

_ woah turn around  _

Techno frowned, lips pinched together as he struggled with the fire. That was awfully tame for chat, wasn’t it? They’d have long since started screaming for blood by now - they hated thieves, and  _ loathed  _ children. That was their specialty.

But the calls for violence this time around were, surprisingly, the minority. That didn’t make any sense. Did they know something he didn’t?

The fire roared at last, and Techno turned around.

Immediately, he could tell that the kid was worse for wear. His cheeks were sunken in, an unmistakable sign of malnutrition, and his pallor contrasted sharply with the bagginess of his eyes. His shirt looked stretched out, like he’d ripped the fabric in order to make it fit. 

In other words, he looked like shit.

Chat seemed uncharacteristically distressed at the realization, baffling him further. Techno hadn’t expected his culprit to actually be  _ living  _ in the woods - he’d just figured he was part of a neighboring village. What the hell was going on?

“OI, BITCH!” 

He pushed the kid onto a sitting log, huffing as the teen bared his teeth angrily. “What.”

“Wha- you  _ know  _ what!” he sputtered. “Stop fucking looking at me, dickhead! It’s creepy!”

“So ya just want me to never look at you again.”

“Exactly! Longingly staring at someone you just kidnapped is usually a very bad sign, bitch!”

All the people that chat could have chosen, and it had to be this little shit.

Then again, chat seemed to have its own agenda most of the time. They only liked two - well,  _ three _ people, now, and even then there were still cries for violence. It was abnormal for the majority to just…  _ attach  _ to people, and in such a short amount of time. It agitated him to no end to not have the slightest idea what they were thinking.

Still. Generally, they weren’t wrong (and when they were, it was a loud minority being a bunch of lying little assholes). The voices knew things that he didn’t, and their instincts usually tended to be right, even if half the things they spouted were nothing but obnoxious, nonsensical gibberish. 

As much as he would love to punt this kid halfway across the forest, he’d hold off for now. He’d be willing to throw the teen at Phil whenever he got back, since he seemed to collect kids like flies. He’d much prefer to have someone around to throw some of the  _ less appealing  _ jobs onto, anyway - Wilbur was getting far too good at dodging those.

Apparently not satisfied with the silence (though Techno was fairly certain that he wasn’t satisfied with anything), the blonde kicked at him with a huff. “Alright, now I’m definitely sure you’re a creep.” He attempted to gesture with his arms, but paused awkwardly when he realized that they were still tightly locked in Techno’s hands. “Spacing out n’ shit. Looking at me weird, talking to yourself.” He smirked knowingly, as though he genuinely thought he had the hybrid pinned down. “Crazy enough to be a fucking kidnapper for sure.”

Techno couldn’t help but let loose a small smirk of his own, pushing his satchel towards him with his foot. “Guess you’ll have to adapt to the hostage life,” he huffed, rummaging through it with an open hand until he found what he wanted. “You’re gonna be here a while.”

He squinted at this, leaning forward to see what he had in his hand. “What? What the fuck are you-“ Suddenly, his eyes widened in recognition and he lunged forward desperately. “NO-“

The weakness potion hit him immediately. 

Techno couldn’t hold back a huff of amusement as the kid’s shoulders slumped, exhausted eyes staring up at him in dazed confusion. “Wha… what? Don’ kill… me...”

He crumpled forward, Techno pulling him backwards so he didn’t fall face - first into the fire (why did people keep  _ doing  _ that?).

The voices delighted in this, excited that he was actually getting sleep that he appeared to desperately need, but Techno had bigger priorities. He needed to keep the kid here until Phil got back and having at least one of his hands restraining a manic child at all times wasn’t exactly optimal.

Techno leaned back, glancing at the kid’s sleeping face. He looked… young. Younger than when he was screaming indignancies, anyway.

Well, whatever. The potion would keep him asleep for twelve hours minimum and wouldn’t cause any permanent damage. That was the important part, so it was fine.

He leaned back, content, and listened to the sound of breaths that weren’t his own as the skyline began to tint with hints of orange. The sun would be rising soon.

All he had to do was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... three down?


	15. a foot out the door

Phil was beginning to regret increasing the frequency of his travels.

Not because he thought his…  _ team  _ couldn’t handle it, no. Techno and Wilbur, chaotic and strange as they were, had both equally proved themselves to be sufficient on the job. They both certainly had their moments, but he had confidence in them.

(Maybe even trust.)

The trips were necessary, important. He’d fly for miles on end, toes curling impatiently as he scoped out villages to sell to and ones to slaughter. More often than not, he’d go ahead and do the job himself. It was all vital, and he knew that better than anyone.

(He wasn’t doing enough. It was never enough. He was still the pathetic, meaningless immortal barely teetering above humans, and he  _ hated it. _ )

However.

He did note some downsides to his long, frequent trips away from the campsite. Namely, missing important or potentially profitable events occurring, but he’d brushed it off. Surely he wouldn’t be caught  _ that  _ out of the loop, right?

“Phil, I found ya another child to kidnap.”

… Right.

“Techno, why…” Phil paused, blinking, still trying to process the fact that there was some random kid crumpled in a heap by the fireplace. “What did you do?”

He shifted uncomfortably at that, awkwardly gesturing to the child as if that was a feasible explanation. “Uh. He showed up n’ stole some shit. I staked out, caught em’. Then he started cussing me out, so I figured ya might want ‘em for odd jobs or whatever.” 

“So you… just…” Phil walked closer to the campfire, wrinkling his nose at the bitingly familiar scent of a weakness potion. “Drugged him. Because you thought I might like him.”

Techno blinked, glancing between the kid and Phil cautiously as though he couldn’t decide which posed a bigger threat at the moment. “Yeah. Yeah, I mean, that’s pretty much it.”

He growled, pinching the tip of his nose so tightly he might have been able to snap it off.

Ender, and he thought  _ Wilbur  _ was the wild card here. What was he even thinking when he did this, looking at a thief who could jeopardize their location and saying “Let’s make an already bad situation worse!” 

Techno must have sensed his frustration because he quickly stood up and motioned for him to sit down. If he didn’t know any better, Phil would think that his hands were shaking. “It’s not too late to run ‘em right through, if ya want. I’d be on board for killing a heathen child any day, you know me.”

Even he couldn’t help but snort a bit at that, watching as Techno desperately tried to alleviate the issue. “Why’d you even bother to keep him, then?”

“... Well.” Techno sat down again, eyes tilted upwards in thought. “He seemed like he had a fire. Like he was what you’d been waiting for in us, I guess.” 

The sun rose through the trees slowly, brightening the pine - laced sky.

“... I think he’s what you’ve been searching for.”

Phil walked over to the kid cautiously , hands wrung together and toes clenched tight. He peered over the child, eyes furrowed.

He looked malnourished, that’s for sure. Far too thin arms and hollowed cheeks told more of a story than the kid himself ever could. It made his gut twist, for some reason. 

It wasn’t exactly surprising that he was stealing from them, but he did wonder  _ why _ someone so young would be living near such a remote location. Did he have any parents or relatives left alive? It would definitely be strange to go to such extreme lengths to steal from someone if he didn’t live nearby, and there were no sites with people around for miles.

Most likely, he was an orphan. A runaway orphan at that, heckling Techno and stealing their things. Frankly, the fact that Techno hadn’t already murdered him was absolutely mind - boggling.

In any other circumstance, Phil would probably have said no. He  _ definitely  _ would have said no, running that kid through on the ground right then and there. He would not feel sad. He never felt sad.

But.

The kid scowled, even in his sleep. He looked angry, and loud, and  _ so  _ tired, and Phil couldn’t help but gravitate to that. It didn’t make any sense, and he  _ knew  _ that. 

… Of course he knew that.

But there was something about him that made Phil hold his sword, to loosen more ends instead of tying them up so tightly that it hurts.

He could work with this. He could utilize this kid and business would shift, skyrocket at rates that they could have never even fathomed. The itch, the thirst for something more, to  _ be  _ more would finally be fulfilled.

Phil turned towards Techno, eyebrow raised. “You sure this kid’s the one you want?”

Techno sputtered. “Wha- the one  _ I  _ want? This is for you, don’t drag me into this! I would have loved to have killed the child immediately!”

“Really.”

_ “Yes.  _ I spared him for you, because I figured you might want him. Don’t mistake my generosity for mercy, because it’s not.”

“So let me get this straight. You thought, in the middle of the night, that the first you’d do when you decided that you wanted to do something kind for me was to drug and abduct a child.”

“... Okay. Don’t say it like that. That’s not…” Techno shifted uncomfortably, staring at the floor in silence. “That’s not how it happened.”

“So you didn’t kidnap a child.”

“... The voices love him, Phil. They don’t… they don’t just attach themselves to anyone. This is something different.”

Phil paused in thought, looking at the body sprawled out in front of him, gentle breaths just barely eclipsing the silence. “If you really think so, then I’ll trust your judgment. He can stay. For now, at least.”

They would have to talk to him soon. Hopefully he wouldn’t be  _ too  _ hard to persuade. Hopefully, of course, they’d have a new team member.

It was all just a matter of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to juricii’s and numanum’s discord servers for ideas, especially puff and autumntoash.
> 
> i will join more. i will hurt you.


	16. heel on earth

Waking up was a sluggish affair.

His head felt clouded as he came into consciousness, throbbing in agitation when he tried to move. That was a bit odd, but nothing too concerning, right? Waking up was always a bitch, even if his head didn’t usually feel so weighted and dull. 

Not that, of course, he was weighted  _ or  _ dull. The Big Man was also a smart man,  _ obviously.  _ Poor choice of words.

Tommy hesitantly peeked his eyes open, then quickly letting them snap shut at the burning light that assaulted his senses, only making his headache worse. 

_ God,  _ what’d he even do last night? Bash his fucking skull into a rock? He could barely remember anything.

He’d been… scavenging, right? Out looking for something? Yeah, that sounded right. He was out last night to restock on supplies, probably.

He remembered shouting at someone and… a pig? A pig - looking guy? A-

“Finally woke up, eh? Took ya long enough.”

_ Holy fuck. _

Tommy shot upwards, vision blacking out at the sudden wave of vertigo that hit him with the movement. He felt a hand grip his shoulder as he hastily stumbled to his feet.

Had… had he really just been  _ kidnapped?  _ Fucking  _ drugged? _ What the fuck?

He tried desperately to take a step forward, but he swayed dangerously to the right and the hand on his shoulder tightened. By this point he would have swatted it away, but he was having a bit of trouble moving his limbs in general (God, what the hell was in the potion?). 

“Le’ go ‘f me,” he growled, grimacing at the delay of his own words and definitely  _ not  _ slurring, racism being bad and all. “Fuckin… bitch… “

The hand’s owner didn’t seem too concerned with his threats, snorting with restrained laughter as they sat him back on the ground. “Honestly, I can’t tell if that’s a sign of ya actually wakin’ up or if your subconscious is just so royally pissed off that it woke ya up early.” The hand kept its hold on him even when he tried to stand up again. “Just go back to sleep, I guess. I’m not gonna talk to a strung out corpse.”

Part of him wanted to cuss the bitch out for talking to him like that, but the fog over his mind was growing and he felt his head loll to the side.

It was fine. He’d just sleep for a minute, then kick ass. 

He’d only be a second.

  
  
  
  


The next time Tommy woke up, the daze he’d been in was (mostly) lifted, and the light was painless enough to where he could actually open his eyes. 

(Frankly, a part of him would always wish that he never did.)

The campsite brought back a flood of less than fond memories and he hastily pulled himself to his feet, dizziness still overwhelming but he could still manage to move. 

There was a sudden lack of the pig fucker, much to his relief, and he couldn’t hold back an elated sigh when he realized that he wasn’t being restrained. He was free! From… whatever the fuck that was!

He hurriedly began speed walking, hesitant to break into an all - out sprint on the off chance that someone was nearby and they heard him. He kept his head low, wincing every time he stepped on a leaf or branch.

It was fine. He’d been walking, he was going at a decent pace, they wouldn’t catch him, they  _ wouldn’t- _

“Damn, you made it far.”

Oh fuck, there were  _ more. _

He threw his fist forwards as he spun around, but his wrist was caught with surprising ease (why were his attacks so weak nowadays?) and he was met face to face with someone besides the bard bitch or pig fucker, and his stomach dropped.

This guy was someone new. He was dressed weirdly (who wears that many stripes at once and thinks they’re taking their life in the right direction, what the  _ fuck),  _ and his jacket was dripping off the ends with something that looked suspiciously close to blood, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.

The… the guy had  _ wings.  _ More specifically, he had wings in the form of feet.

They towered above both of them, outstretched and grotesque, and the toes seemed to lightly twitch at his gaze.

(The thought of bloody feet in a bag crossed his mind, but he’d brushed it off as a drug - induced hallucination. He was  _ really  _ gunning for a drug - induced hallucination.)

_ God,  _ it’d be fucking comical if it wasn’t so incredibly disturbing. 

The grip on his wrist held tight and he found himself being pulled forward, jolting him back to reality. He yanked himself backwards, heels digging into the ground, but he stumbled forward at the slightest pull. There was no fucking way that he was  _ that  _ weak. Whoever this foot fetish asshole was, they were abnormally strong.

“What the  _ fuck  _ do you want,” he spat venomously, gritting his teeth as he was pulled along like a goddamn  _ dog _ . 

He was only met with a tired sigh. “Trying to resolve Techno’s mistake. I have no idea what’s going on with my team half the time, I swear.” He turned, the garish hat making him somehow look even more bizarrely demented. “Sorry about the whole… you know.”

Tommy blinked in confusion. Out of all the things he’d braced himself for, he wasn’t exactly expecting an apology. “Why are you even doing this anyway, bitch?” 

They walked forward (or, well, one of them walked and the other was reluctantly dragged) in silence. He was about to try and kick him in the shins again when his abductor spoke up.

“We want to offer you a job.”

A… job? What the hell?

“Techno’ll give you the details and whatnot.” He pointed up ahead towards the campsite, earning a tired groan from Tommy. He really thought that he’d gone farther than that.

He could start screaming, but it was apparent they both knew there wasn’t anyone for miles around. He needed to catch them off guard before he made a run for it.

But for now… it couldn’t hurt to listen to a job opportunity first.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> three down... maybe? maybeish?
> 
> more collectors approach.


	17. one step forward

_ 🦀🦀TOMMY IS BACK 🦀🦀 _

_ at this rate we might as well start selling orphans with the feet _

_ 3 OUT OF 4 LET’S GO _

_ capturing children any% speedrun _

  
  


The kid (Tommy?) was, as expected, returned quickly. 

It was impressive that he’d managed to run at all, to be honest. He and Phil had been keeping especially close to the campsite, yet he’d inexplicably been able to wake up at just the right time to book it. He’d been gone for, what, five minutes tops? It was ridiculous. This kid was ridiculous.

Phil didn’t seem particularly concerned, which was reasonable. He couldn’t have run far given his disoriented state, and he only had about a three minute lead. He’d told Techno not to bother leaving, that he’d go talk to the kid himself. Something about “him being too intimidating.”

(A bit hypocritical, he thought, given the blood from the hunt was still dripping off his jacket despite ample opportunity to wipe it off. He wondered, sometimes, if he left it to stain on purpose.)

Tommy was holding it together fairly well, he’d say. His hands were shaking as Phil walked him back to the camp and he still looked scared out of his mind, sure, but anything better than comatose with terror was above average when it came to Phil. To any of them, really.

He looked up at Techno and his lips immediately curled back into a scowl, but he didn’t say anything. 

Good. He wasn’t quite sure how to handle someone who was suicidal.

They sat down next to him around the fire pit, having long since died during the night. Phil let go of his wrist, and Tommy quickly jerked it away, eying the two of them warily. Tension collected itself in his shoulders as he shifted in his seat, but he didn’t make another escape attempt.

Tentative silence lingered in the air. Phil turned towards Techno and back towards the kid, which was - wow.  _ Not  _ going to happen. He was not going to be the one to explain this shitshow to someone, no matter the increasingly frustrating head gestures. 

An irritated huff from between them broke the silence. “You two dumbasses gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on or are you just gonna stare at each other all day?” The blonde looked between the two of them, a shaky smirk worming its way onto his face - trying to gather himself, no doubt. “I already knew you guys were creepy fucks, but the staring’s just stupid. Repugent, one might say.”

Why did chat always cling to the idiots?

“God, that’s- ugh.” Techno covered his face, grimacing. “The word is repugnant. Or maybe redundant, they both describe ya too well for me to decide.”

He sputtered in indignation, voice gaining volume in a spur of uproarious anger. “You’re one to talk, you creepy fucking foot lover! I know exactly what I’m doing!  _ You  _ are repungent. A repungent dickhead.”

“Really.”

“Really. The worst of your kind. It’s a miracle you haven’t been executed yet.”

“We’re criminals on the run.” Tommy’s smile quickly dimmed and Techno didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes flickered to a spot behind them in the trees.

_ (“What the fuck is this shit?”) _

“... I guess I ought to explain to you more about what we do here, since Phil here’s currently being a coward and refusing to go first.” He shot a glare behind him and felt only slightly annoyed by the wheeze of laughter he was returned with. 

“We’re operating a… business. Something rather unorthodox, I guess.” Techno looked up at Tommy, expression carefully blank in observation. “I’m sure that you can guess what it is.”

Tommy’s lips tightened at this, but he still kept his mouth shut, glaring at a spot on his shoes with a passion. His hands were shaking, and his shoulders tensed even more to compensate.

He was scared.

Good.

He should be.

“I’m sure you’ve seen Wilbur around, given your  _ extensive  _ time spent lingering near our campsite. He, as well as the rest of us, are in charge of specific jobs to help our operations system run as smoothly as possible. There’s some level of overlap, given we only have like three employees, but we mostly stick to our own individual work.”

“Wilbur’s in charge of selling to customers. He’s always been good at that kind of thing - a smooth salesman, wielding the power of persuasion and whatnot. Heard he was a traveling musician before this, so it makes sense.”

“Phil’s in charge of scouting out new locations. His…  _ wings  _ are very useful in terms of faster travel, and he’s pretty skilled at finding places we haven’t been yet for selling and product creation. Also comes up with new product ideas, too. Kind of weird, not gonna lie.”

“As for me… well.” He pointed to himself, a small smile adorning his blank face, twisted awkwardly as though it didn’t know what to do with itself. “I help create the product.”

Tommy’s face blanched, but he kept still, glare shifting more into a distant stare. He looked… spaced out, almost. He’d have thought that he couldn’t hear what he was saying were his hand tremors not worsening.

“Despite everything, we still don’t have a very large business, or influence on the people around us, which is our goal. We’re always looking to expand, which is why we’re offering this to you in the first place.”

“We’re looking for someone to deliver to our more…  _ eccentric  _ clients. Our major buyers tend to be rather difficult to find and, well, they’re a little creepy. Ya’d be delivering the product to them.”

Techno leaned forward, hand outstretched. “So, whaddya say? We got a deal?”

Tommy was silent, for a moment, his body unmoving. Techno was about to ask again when he spoke up, the quietest he’d heard him yet.

“You’d let me stay here?”

He could not be moved, but chat could. 

“Yeah.” He took in the kid for a second. When he wasn’t talking, he looked empty, like words were the only thing holding him upright. “Yeah, you would.”

Something in his eyes brightened at that, though he did his best not to show it. Jaw clenched, Tommy’s hand met his. “Deal.”

Chat cheered. Phil grinned.

(And, well, his lips twitched with them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be served with a smile.


	18. no leg to stand on

He’d somehow expected both better and worse, really.

Sure, the constantly lingering knowledge that he was currently lugging around the severed feet of dozens of people (big man or no, even he wasn’t dumb enough to try and ask Techno or Phil where they’d come from) was nothing short of horrifying, and Tommy wanted nothing more than to heave out his innards, chuck that fucking bag in a river and run as far away as humanly possible. That seemed like kind of a given.

Yet, there was something so morbidly…  _ mundane  _ about it. They only wanted him to go and sell their creepy fucking products or whatever, despite Techno assuring him that he’d be assigned other projects once the bard bitch (Wilbur, he called it, that’s exactly the kind of dumbass name a bard would have) returned from his sales outing.

“What projects?” Tommy asked.

“Talent scouting,” Techno huffed.

What a fucking piece of shit. He’d go find a boar and kill it with his bare hands just to serve that fucker bacon on a platter. Probably eat it too, considering how stupid he was. So stupid.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

_God_ , he was so stupid.

Honestly, he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Could he really just walk into some random village and start selling feet like fucking meat sticks? Was it okay? Would any of this honestly be better if it was?

All they’d done is chuck him the bag and told him to come back. They didn’t even watch him leave.

(The distant flap of wings overhead was too strong for any bird.)

How much were they even worth? Did they even need money in the first place, since they were apparently assholes with power and whatnot? Maybe he could just start throwing feet at the trees and call it a day?

Tommy slid to the ground, shoulders hunched together, and let his breath draw out in a slow exhale. He barely held back a shudder as the evening air bit at him with fervor. Nights were always frigidly cold, but normally he at least had Tubbo nearby.

(He was going to see Tubbo again. If this didn’t go well… he  _ had  _ to see him first.)

Wilbur did the same job he was doing now and he wouldn’t come home for days at a time, right? He could get away with stopping for the night. 

(… Probably. He hoped so. The wings had stopped, at least.)

  
  


The fire, thankfully, came mercifully easy, roaring to life after only a few feeble attempts. All that time on his own was starting to pay off.

Tommy slumped down to the ground, head beginning to droop in exhaustion as he absentmindedly poked at his hastily - made fire pit. The evenings always seemed to come quicker nowadays, seasons or no. It pissed him off to no end, but the early arrival of the night was a surprising benefit to his sleep schedule. The darkening sky always left a bone - deep exhaustion soaked uncomfortably through the skin.

He was so warm.

Maybe just a moment of rest.

Just a moment.

  
  
  
  


Tommy awoke to a dying fire and the rustle of leaves from behind him. Still too sluggish to have a properly terrified reaction (though not him of course, big men don’t get terrified  _ obviously _ ) _ ,  _ he turned slowly, half expecting some fox or squirrel.

He was met instead with a blob.

There… wasn’t much else to describe it with, really. There was a tiny little white blobman peering over his bag of feet curiously (if it was even sentient enough for that). Strangely enough, it did have a sort of head shape and a wider, slanting region to act as a lower half of sorts. No appendages to speak of, but it almost looked like… a body.

He must have made some form of noise in his reaction because the blob abruptly stilled, raised its head towards him,  _ looked him in the fucking eyes,  _ and smiled. Or, well, already smiled. Its (his?) face didn’t really seem to move much.

“Are these for sale?”

Even while speaking.

Part of him wanted to yank the blobman into the fire as quickly as possible, while another part of him was definitely  _ not  _ wanting to shriek at the top of his fucking lungs and make a run for it, but he refrained. Maybe his brain was still clouded and syrupy from just being woken up, but he would hate to lose a potential buyer when he still had no idea what the hell he was supposed to do.

Even if they were a blob.

Blinking, he quickly stuck on his best salesman face and grinned. “Fuck yeah they are! How many would you like?”

The blob didn’t have any discernible facial reaction (though it did… wheeze? Could blobs get sick? Was that a thing?), but he turned to the bag and hummed, considering. “Two. A left and right.”

He couldn’t hide the bite of disappointment that stung him at that - he’d really been hoping to make a larger dent in this oversized trash bag - but something was better than nothing. Tommy pulled out two feet cautiously, ignoring the nauseous feeling that overcame him, and quickly turned around.

A neat little pile of coins had appeared in front of the blob since he turned around, and he looked up expectantly. Tommy set the feet on the ground awkwardly, stuffing the coins into his pocket before the blob could change his mind.

The blob stared at them for a moment, unmoving. Then, abruptly, he lept upwards, hopping awkwardly onto the feet and letting them sink slightly into his… skin. Body. Whatever.

The feet shifted and turned unnaturally, but based on the much more coordinated hops that came immediately after, they seemed to be functional.

The blob looked up at him, head tilted in an almost observing manner. “They keep getting absorbed, so I always need more.”

Ah. 

That explained absolutely fucking nothing.

He coughed awkwardly, leaning back slightly. “Thank you, mister… uh…”

“Dream.” At this, the blob turned around, hopping much quieter than before. An unsettlingly quick adaptation. “We’ll meet again soon.”

Dream faded out of sight long after he’d left his earline, the speck of white becoming more and more distant until nothing was discernible in the evening light. Tommy slumped back down, head already growing heavy.

He was alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait, i’m literally using an old ipod to do anything on here and the sole charger in the house for it died
> 
> special thanks to autumntoash and curseworm for helping me with this chapter. my partner in crime and partner in crime i’m dragging kicking and screaming, respectively. you guys are awesome.


	19. in someone else’s shoes

He’d gotten careless.

It shouldn’t have been terribly surprising, really. All of the towns (if you could even call them that - they were hardly anything more than a few ramshackle communities of houses out in the rural countryside) Wilbur had visited didn’t exactly have the highest standards when it came down to what they were sold. If it was edible and cheap, they’d take it.

So, he’d thought he might try going to sell at a more populated location. His first major achievement on a solo mission, he’d thought. He’d be able to spike up the prices more here, make more of a haul. It’d be enough to make Phil shut up and quit giving him these ridiculous outings  _ and  _ he’d get to relentlessly flaunt it in Techno’s face. Two birds with one stone, honestly.

There were only a couple hundred people living here. He’d made sure to stick to the lower - class housing. He’d kept his face down, mouth closed, and legs moving if he wasn’t completing a sale. _He’d_ _done everything right._

All it took was one saundering housewife to rip him apart.

She’d wandered over, leaned in, took one good look at the contents of his bag, and went ballistic. She started screaming hysterically, oblivious to his pleas to calm down and the increasing amount of attention she was gathering. He’d prayed to every god, foot - oriented or otherwise, that there wasn’t a judicial force of law here.

There was.

And now he was in prison.

_ Again.  _

They’d thrown him in a cell with little fanfare, a guard keeping a firm grip on his shoulder all the way. He didn’t have the combat prowess of Techno or, well, pretty much everything about Phil, but he made sure to keep the grin on his face. Being smug was something he was getting  _ way  _ too good at.

  
  


He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he’d been arrested (though a much less optimistic part of his brain whispered that it could have been weeks and he’d be none the wiser), but he was getting restless. This time around, he didn’t even have a window, so time dragged on at imperceptible speeds.

Thankfully, he’d been given the small mercy of mobility - somewhat, at least. He was still chained to the wall, but the links stretched out far enough to reach the entirety of his cell so he could walk around. It was in extremely dark, cramped quarters, sure, but he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

… yet.

It was eerily quiet, wherever he was. He could hear the scrape of the wall behind him whenever he moved, and the obnoxious clank of his chains whenever he paced around his cell, but there was no noise beyond his own. It was rather unnerving, to be honest. Weren’t there any guards here?

Reluctantly, Wilbur lifted himself up with a groan. He didn’t want to have his physical health deteriorate if this became a long - term ordeal, though he desperately hoped it didn’t. He wasn’t sure that he could stomach much more of this quiet.

He tried to keep his mind blank as he walked (well, it was more of a slightly larger spin, given the rather pathetic square footage), but it never helped much. It still helped as a distraction, at least. Better than sitting in complete silence with nothing left to smother the aching with.

Would Phil even bother coming for him? Would he even think it was worth it?

This entire trip had been a waste. What little profits he had made were quickly confiscated, and what he hadn’t sold was most likely burned. He was good with selling, sure, but not in picking where to sell, or combat, or anything that could prevent this disaster from happening again.

The only reason Phil has saved him the first time was because he was an unknown variable, someone with  _ potential.  _ Wilbur was someone he’d just stumbled into out of the blue and he’d stuck with it.

And  _ oh,  _ wasn’t that a horrifying thought - nobody knew where he was. He’d gone off to a different town without telling anybody because he thought he could handle it, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that he most certainly could not. He’d wandered off without specifying a return date or warning of any sort. 

They might not even be aware something‘s wrong yet. Nether, they might not even know for weeks! 

His grip on the chain links tightened as he grit his teeth. 

He… he needed to calm down. Anger wasn’t going to be able to help him right now when he didn’t even know what was going to happen to him. He needed to collect himself and wait to see if someone comes before determining a problem. 

He could fix this. He could  _ do  _ this.

A screech beside him quickly caught his attention, and he couldn’t help but wince as light poured through the room. A slot in the door had opened, and he could barely make out a tray being shoved hastily inside, before quickly being shut again, leaving him in darkness once more.

Wilbur made his way over cautiously. He could discern a small array of food had been left for him - a roll, a glass of water, something… brown. Not terrible for a jail, honestly.

What caught his attention, however, was a small piece of paper neatly placed on top of the tray. He plucked it off hesitantly, unfolded it, and squinted to see the words.

_ To our recent guest, _

_ 7 days. _

_ -Housekeeping. _

He stared, blankly, at the paper. He turned it several times, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything (he hadn’t). That was the entirety of the note.

He slumped downward, eyes staring straight at the wall in front of him. 

(Where was the anger now?)

He tensed his hands, trying to stop the tremors that ran through them, and picked up his spoon.

_ It could have been poisoned. _

He knew.

He began to eat.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> until what?


	20. toeying with a thought

It was quiet.

That made sense, obviously. The sun had long since set, and his only other source of life had long since fallen asleep, tusks dipped slightly downwards to his chest. Of course it would be  _ quiet.  _ That was obvious.

But… something felt different. This hollow, aching feeling Phil thought he’d finally shaken off for good  _ it’s never for good  _ was starting to creep back, and he couldn’t figure out why.

Well. He knew why. 

Wilbur usually wasn’t gone for this long. It hadn’t even been two weeks yet, admittedly, and he and Techno had both gone past that time on numerous occasions, but it wasn’t like him to stay out for extended periods, especially without telling either of them. That was unusual behavior. 

He wasn’t… he shouldn’t be worried. It was silly to linger on something trivial like that. If Wilbur was taking longer than he normally did, than he just was. Nothing to concern himself with. Nothing to get upset about.

It was a workload issue, is all. He was missing an extra hand around to help with town wipes and foot crafting, and that was causing them to run behind. It was frustrating, and annoying, and he’d have to have a talk with Wilbur about his time away from the business, and he  _ wasn’t worried. _

His toes curled in on themselves, twitching with agitation, and he twitched as he felt the nail dig into his skin. When was the last he had cut them, anyway? It hadn’t even crossed his mind. He should probably do that soon.

When Wilbur gets back. When he sees Wilbur. 

… When he knows that Wilbur is okay.

Techno shifted in his sleep, mumbling something about Tommy and a prison, and Phil huffed as he shook his head with a smile. Despite his light - hearted insistence that “Technoblade never sleeps” (which, to be fair, was likely a far less amount than was probably healthy), the piglin hybrid was a comically heavy sleeper. He’d pass out for a few hours, mutter in his sleep about whatever hellish thoughts were running through that godforsaken mind of his, and not even a nuclear detonation could wake him. Funny and unnerving, really.

  
  


Wilbur was the opposite, a stark contrast to Techno. He slept far more frequently, but he’d wake at the slightest jolt. If he was running on a significant lack of shuteye he’d sleep like a rock (which he’d been correcting - he didn’t want another repeat of the fire episode), but otherwise he would wake easily.

Techno and Wilbur were opposites in most ways, really. Techno was rather blunt and to the point in conversation, Wilbur preferred a more indirect approach. 

Techno was highly skilled in combat and battle, while Wilbur’s charisma and calculated strategies made him an excellent salesman.

There were smaller ways, too - Wilbur loved music, being a skilled musician himself, and frequently played his guitar and sang. Techno hated music (or maybe just because it was coming from Wilbur). He’d feint a swoon, hands to ears, groaning that a single twang of a guitar string made his ears start bleeding and break out in hives. 

This resulted in several handcrafted, custom songs created specifically for Techno. They tended to have a much higher level of “bitch” and “stale - ass pork rind” than the others.

(Some nights, though - some nights were quieter.

Techno came back with him one night, clutching his head in pain. “The voices,” he’d groaned, “They’re actin’ up again.” Their night at camp was much quieter than usual, as the talking of others made Techno double over in agony. 

Until Wilbur, who’d been oddly silent the whole evening, brought out his guitar, and began lightly playing a melody. Techno breathed in deeper, slower. His voices eased away at the sound of the guitar strumming.

They all slept peacefully that night.)

The two of them both had skills and talents that made them excel at what they did. Despite their bickering and conflicts, they worked well as a team. Both of them were invaluable assets to the team, and the fact that they knew each other well helped all the more.

They were still small, admittedly. They hadn’t moved out past small towns and nearby villages, so it was evident that they had much to improve on for that front. This business, this influence - it wasn’t quite where it could be,  _ would  _ be.

And then there was Tommy.

A new variable. A new member of this small little team, this strange partnership he’d quite literally stumbled upon. 

He was young, younger than any of them, and living out on his own. At first glance he didn’t seem to be capable of anything beyond loud, brash, and vulgar, but that was the trick, the catch. Something about him caught the eye - something calculated. Observant.

Tommy was passionate. Tommy was a spitfire. Tommy would make this business  _ explode. _

This was what he’d been looking for, what he’d still been missing. He needed someone with that energy, that unrestrained fire none of them possessed. He drew attention without even trying, and it wasn’t the kind that would get him gawked at (Phil) or killed (Techno… or Wilbur, really, considering his eating habits). 

He’d watched the kid from afar, waiting to see him start running again or ditch the bag, but he didn’t. He set up a camp, found a village, and sold off every last one. He’d be back within hours with a pile of coins, and curse them out for being creepy, and Phil will know that this is what he has been trying to find.

He sat back, watching the fire aimlessly dance, and relaxed. Tommy would be back soon, and so would Wilbur. They’d meet, and probably argue over something silly within minutes, but they would connect,  _ function  _ as they were meant to.

He didn’t have anything to be concerned about, really. Wilbur was alright, Tommy was alright, and Techno was sleeping right beside him. Soon, they’d move as a unit again.

  
  
  
  


_ 6 days. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tommy’s stream yesterday gave me an idea or two.


	21. when the rooster toes

Techno awoke to the gentle clink of metal against metal. Though achingly familiar (he’d grown up surrounded by the sheen of blades, after all), it was significantly disconcerting given that he never even remembered falling asleep last night. Nether, he hadn’t even felt tired this time around and he was passing out!

Damn Phil and Wilbur, goading him into sleeping in later to try and soften him up. Idiots, the both of them. He’d make sure to impale them both if he had any free time later.

Speaking of which, what on earth was Phil  _ doing? _

It wasn’t as though the clinking (coins, too light for a weapon) was particularly grating - quite the opposite, really. He was normally just… abnormally quiet around camp. He’d appear in one blink with a bag full of toes and be gone in the next, not to be seen for several hours afterwards. Strange on its own, but rather on par for a foot… god… thing.

A quick eye peek reassured him that he was, in fact, still at the campsite, which he was grateful for. At least now whenever chat decided to show up they wouldn’t be vibrating his skull with their jittery paranoia.

Part of him felt obligated to get up and quit lazing around, but he couldn’t muster up near enough genuine shame to care at this point. Tired or not, he could take any unlucky intruder who stumbled in his path with ease, and the sky was still tinged a damp azure. It couldn’t hurt to get some additional sleep for practice at keeping on his toes.

Eyes slipping shut once more, Techno let the heaviness of the warm air slowly coat him in sleep.

  
  
  


_ TOMMY’S HERE _ _   
  
_

_ damn i wish it were phil _

_ TECHNOBLIND _

_ bruh how the fuck are we not dead yet lmao _

  
  
  


Or not.

Holding back a thinly restrained grumble, Techno sat up, blinking blearily in confusion when he saw the source of the previous noise. There, hunched over awkwardly near the firepit, sat Tommy, quietly counting a stack of coins. He seemed uncharacteristically focused, lingering on each coin as though he were trying to make absolutely sure that he got the count right, that he didn’t make a mistake.

It felt… weird, honestly. Not uncomfortable, per say, or particularly unpleasant, just… odd. He still didn’t know the kid that well, given Phil’s impromptu mission for him as soon as he’d been recruited, and after a week or two Techno had just assumed that he ran off. Phil never seemed particularly concerned.

And here he was, a foot bag lighter and a gold bag heavier, sneaking into the campsite without him knowing. Nether, why’d Phil have to be right so often?

… where was Phil, anyway?

Tommy, finally noticing that he now had an audience, flicked a coin at his head. It barely grazed his ear, and he couldn’t help but feel relieved in knowing that Tommy, at the very least, was not sneaky in any form of the word. He already had  _ far  _ too many bizarre anomalies clouding his life right now for this disaster child to add to the pile. “Morning,  _ bitch.” _

Techno sat up awkwardly, restraining a yawn as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “Mornin’.” Turning around, he allowed a huff of annoyance to escape him as he realized that Phil was nowhere to be found, if only to alleviate the increasing agitation of chat. They were unpleasant company when they grew angry. “So. Where’s Phil?”

“Wow, now even a hello?  _ Really?  _ You’re real fucking rude, you know that? Someone ought to have taught you some basic fucking manners, pig.” Tommy had picked up a bit in volume, but the brunt of his concentration was still focused on the coins as he furrowed his brow in thought. “Not sure, I guess. Wasn’t there when I got here, whenever the fuck that was.”

Well… that wasn’t entirely unexpected. Phil had a rather bad habit of making unexplained trips at random without notifying anyone. It was quite annoying, really, but he usually didn’t take too long when he was by himself.

He did, however, have terrible timing. It was either that or he was purposely tormenting him by thrusting him into a social situation with a loud orphan, all of which were things he would prefer dead instead of alive. Or just, like, not at all.

“... so.” Techno sat up more, watching the kid work at moving the coins back and forth, back and forth, over and over again, the strange silence still lingering with a hint of uncertainty in the air. “Who’d all you sell off the feet to?”

Tommy just scoffed, pausing only momentarily to glare at him before returning to his... work? Work. “The fuck are you getting on about now, dickhead? Can’t even leave me alone for a solid minute?” Another coin dropped in the counted pile with a resounding clink. “A couple villages north of here, nothing you’d care about. And the Queen, of course, who knighted me because I was just that much of a big man.”

“Obviously.” Techno remained quiet after that, and for once, so did Tommy. The silence resumed for a few minutes, Techno watching Tommy count for god knows what reason because apparently he had nothing better to do with his life.

After the last coin was counted out, Tommy yawned, taking a bag from his side and haphazardly shoving the coins in with a sweep of his hands. “Welp. I’m going to bed, pig bitch, considering I’ve been fucking walking all night.” He slumped over, head hunched over his chest. “Don’t even try to wake me up, I  _ will  _ slap the shit out of you.”

Going back to sleep didn’t sound like that bad an idea, actually. It was still rather early, Phil wasn’t here, Wilbur was off doing god knows what, and they were pretty much caught up on most of the work to get done in product making (he’d have to get Tommy on toe necklace duty immediately, if only to see the look on his face). 

With a sigh, Techno slid back down, letting the haze take his mind over again as the voices quieted.

A few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

  
  
  
  


_ 5 days. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should you be thinking?


	22. stumbling in the dark

It’s dark.

Dark is an almost comical word to describe it, really. Such a vague word, dark. A blank slate, a meaning nearly innocent in its sheer simplicity.

Maybe Wilbur should keep dark out of this. It hasn’t done anything to deserve being associated with this place.

(It’s also inaccurate - dark implies there is something hidden out beyond his view, but the only thing there is the front door, whose sparse busts of light are growing more and more infrequent.)

He had no idea what day it was - he’d given up bothering to try the moment he was thrown in here. That seemed like far too much time and effort for something that, in the end, would likely not turn out to be very helpful. 

In escaping. In survival. In keeping sanity intact.

Ha.

That was probably being a bit overdramatic, really. It had probably only been, like, a day at most, though given rather confusing meal times and erratic hunger pains it was a bit hard to tell. Most of his time was just being spent staring at where the door was (even if he couldn’t see it in the… void, yes, that’s a better word), waiting for a crevice of light to burn his vision. He didn’t exactly have much to occupy himself with otherwise, so he figured it couldn’t hurt.

It helped, but it made him impatient. He was always teetering on the edge of something, feeling certain that any moment now someone would walk through that door, and would often bounce between intervals of eager anticipation and aching numbness like a wayward planet thrown in and out of orbit.

Thoughts were so loud and it was never enough. Worries and fleeting whispers stuffed his brain to its minuscule capacity and it was still too quiet.  _ Why  _ was it so quiet? Where were they?

(Even in his own head, he didn’t have the energy to clarify who, and wasn’t that just pathetic? Absolutely idiotic in all the worst ways for all eternity, that’s what he was. He’d been finding out quite a lot about himself as of late.)

All his life, Wilbur had tended to keep quiet when he wasn’t directly in a conversation. He never considered himself to be particularly chatty or irritating in that regard. In all honesty, the silence shouldn’t bother him that much.

Maybe… maybe it didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t the lack of voices, or the lack of any people, or the limited knowledge of his future that was tearing at him with barbed, aching twists.

Maybe it was who he’d left behind.

Fuck, wait, no. 

Why would he say that? What the  _ fuck? _

… Nether, prison really does change a person. He’s turning into a fucking sap every second more that he spends staring at where a wall should be in the void. He’d have to remind himself to sock Techno in the jaw once he gets out of here. For professional reasons.

It was just… no one ever prepares you for different types of silence. Silence with other people is different than silence with yourself, and it had taken him far too long to finally understand.

A stream of light bursts through the cell and Wilbur nearly stumbles forward in surprise, but the light is gone just as quickly as it appeared, leaving only a tray behind. Someone has manually opened that door, pushed in the food without spilling anything, and closed the door time after time after time, and he still hasn’t even seen their hands. 

This… irked him. Upset him in ways which seem ridiculous on paper but hold fast on him all the same. Couldn’t he have some confirmation that there were other,  _ living  _ people outside?  _ Anything?  _

A hand. A finger. A voice. A whisper,  _ something.  _ Anything would be an improvement over being forced to sit and stew in the presence of himself for tedious hours on end. 

He could just barely make out the outline of a roll on the tray, along with some sort of… sliced meat? Definitely bread though, that was the one constant of every meal. It was… comforting to see, almost.

Even if it tasted like shit.

Reluctantly, he picked up a slice of the mystery meat, wiggling it a bit in observation. After not seeing anything crawl off it (insurmountable standards, he’s aware), he took a hesitant bite

shifting it around in his mouth cautiously. 

Cold. Tough. Probably a bit more bitter than was healthy.

Oh, thank fuck it was pork.

He can’t stop giggling as he chews into the slices, and is surprised to find that he doesn’t want to, even if a less exhaustion - fueled part of him was burning in shame at getting so worked up over  _ pork  _ of all things. Everything seems funnier now, and the rush of near - hysterical giddiness over frivolous things such as suspicion over the quality of the food he’s being served is a welcome distraction. He takes another bite, head dazed in thought.

Did… did Techno eat pork? Would that be considered cannibalism to him, or is it too far off to actually count? Would pigs to him be the equivalent of a distant cousin who you haven’t seen in eight years, or would the two have a more instinctual connection to each other? More importantly, would Techno even care?

His nose scrunched up a bit, thinking, and the giggling returned with fervor.

No. No, he wouldn’t. That was a stupid question. Techno doesn’t care about anything. 

Obviously.

WIlbur pushed the tray away with a slide, watching as it hit the opposite wall with a quiet thunk. 

He was… he was tired. He hadn’t slept since before he got here, and had been forcing himself to stay awake out of sheer paranoia that someone would show up at his cell while he was asleep. He’d tried his best to remain awake, but constant vigilance was far harder than one would first assume. 

The walls were cold and his muscles were stiff, but he was long past the point of caring whether he’d wake up sore later.

His mind sank, settled. The pork still tasted bitter on his tongue.

The door was still in sight.

Maybe soon he’d get something fresher instead.

  
  
  
  


_ 4 days. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops plot

**Author's Note:**

> you have questions, i’m sure. i don’t know if i’ll be able to give you what you’re looking for.
> 
> footza is a revered figure whose influence stretches throughout multiple mcyt discord servers, and bloomed under a particular one for a particular fic whose author is gonna be so fucking disappointed lmao
> 
> leave any questions or thoughts in the comments please i’m trapped in the lines of code in this cursed website god help me


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